UC-NRLF 


ill 


$B    b05    243 


THE   PALE   HORSE 


THE  PALE  HORSE 


ByROPSHIN" 

[Boris    Savin  kov_Jl 

Author  of"  What  Never  Happened  " 

Translated  from  the  Russian 
By    Z.    VENGEROVA 


ALFRED    A  •  KNOPF 
NEW   YORKMCMXIX 


'R£S£RVATiON 
:,OPY  ADOED 
DRiGJNAL  TO  BE 
:^ETA!NED 


\^d  1335 


Ills 

MAl/V 


MG3538 


Printed  by  T.  and  A.  Constable,  Edinburgh,  Scotland 


INTRODUCTION 

The  soul  of  Russia  is  revealed  even  more  in  her 
literature  than  in  the  realities  of  her  life.  If 
her  activities  are  handicapped  in  many  ways, 
her  spirit  lives  in  a  sort  of  Utopian  Freeland, 
where  it  is  concerned  only  with  problems  of 
spiritual  law  and  spiritual  obligations.  Russian 
novels- — certainly  tne  best  of  them — express  this 
spirit,  and  are  for  that  reason  '  human  docu- 
ments '  of  great  intensity. 

Each  epoch  of  Russia's  spiritual  life  is  ex- 
pressed in  a  few  books  of  a  highly  imaginative 
character.  Among  those  literary  works  which 
illuminate  with  a  rare  light  the  period  just  before 
the  war,  the  problems  which  had  to  be  faced 
by  the  heroic  will  and  the  mystic  tendencies 
of  a  tragically  unbalanced  generation,  Ropshin's 
Pale  Horse  ranKs  as  one  of  the  most  charac- 
teristic. The  Russian  writer  Dmitry  Meresli- 
kovsky  has  called  it  '  the  most  Russian  book  of 


vi  THE  PALE  HORSE 

the  period,*  as  it  contains  the  tragedy  of  every 
individual  conscience  in  Russia  possessed  by 
the  necessity  of  violent  political  action  and  the 
equally  strong  religious  objections  to  it.  The 
problem  of  Ropshin's  hero  could  be  summed 
up  in  the  words  :  '  I  am  bound  in  conscience 
to  do  it — yet  my  conscience  imperatively  pro- 
hibits me  to  do  it.'  The  author's  aim  is  to 
show  the  psychological  consequences  of  this 
very  Russian,  this  very  modern  problem.  Never- 
theless, the  book  is  far  from  being  an  objective 
psychological  study,  but  bears  more  the  impress 
of  a  personal  confession  forced  out  by  some 
urgent  inner  need.  It  is  more  than  mere  '  litera- 
ture,'— ^it  is  life's  tragjedy  interpreted  by  one 
who  had  lived  every  bit  of  what  he  writes  about. 
The  Pale  Horse  is  a  story  of  a  revolutionary 
plot,  yet  it  contains  nothing  of  the  old  conven- 
tional and  romantic  type  of  the  '  Nihilist  story,' 
as  it  used  to  be  written — especially  in  England. 
The  picturesque  side  of  revolutionary  life — its 
continual  dangers,  disguises,  conspiracies — forms 
merely  the  background.  The  object  is  to  show 
the  changer!  spirit  of  a  new  generation  of  revolu- 


INTRODUCTION  vii 

tionaries,  more  fully  aware  of  higher  responsi- 
bilities than  the  former  romantic  fanatics  of 
terrorism.  As  they  appear  in  The  Pale  Horse 
the  Russian  revolutionaries  remind  one  of  thf' 
mystic  heroes  of  Dostoevsky  who  seek  for  justi- 
fication of  their  acts. 

The  book  reveals  the  nature  of  the  change 
that  has  taken  place,  and  makes  clear  the  fact 
that  the  '  Nihilists  '  who  deliberately  had  shaken 
off  all  religious  and  idealistic  conceptions,  in 
order  to  secure  their  immediate  political  aims, 
are  a  thing  of  the  past.  The  new  revolutionaries 
are  more  spiritualised,  more  close  to  the  religious 
wants  and  sentiments  of  the  Russian  people. 
This  has  made  their  problems  more  complex, 
and  The  Pale  Horse  shows  how  distressing  their 
dilemma  has  become.  Yet,  in  spite  of  the 
story's  pessimistic  tone,  there  is  a  suggestion  of 
hopefulness  in  the  struggle  for  the  establish- 
ment of  idealistic  values,  in  the  attempt  to  make 
the  will  conform  to  the  standards  of  enlightened 
thought. 

Ropsiiin's  heroes  are  men  and  women  living 
in  a  period  of  transition,  and  as  such  they  are 

h 


viii  THE  PALE  HORSE 

necessarily  unbalanced,  unsettled,  more  given 
to  reflecting  upon  new  spiritual  values  than  to 
facing  their  problems  with  the  determined  and 
undivided  will  they  need  for  their  purpose. 
They  are  tragic  in  the  absolute  sincerity  of  their 
divided  minds.  In  spite  of  their  doubts  and 
indecision,  their  way  leads  to  future  harmony — 
it  is  the  way  of  high-strung  idealism  applied  to 
the  problems  of  real  life.  This  is  the  hopeful 
prophecy  of  The  Pale  Horse.  The  vision  of  a 
new  and  regenerated  Russia  rises  above  the  sad 
tale  of  shattered  lives  and  cruel  destinies. 

No  one  is  more  entitled  to  reveal  the  new 
psychology  of  the  Russian  fighters  for  freedom 
than  the  author  of  The  Pale  Horse.  Ropshin 
is  his  nom  de  plume.  He  played  a  conspicuous 
part,  in  the  revolutionary  movement  of  about 
ten  years  ago.  Since  then  his  views  underwent 
a  marked  change  :  The  Pale  Horse  is  confes- 
sional and  autobiographical.  He  gave  up  party 
work,  came  into  touch  with  a  strong  religious 
current  in  the  Russian  literature  of  recent  years, 
and  made  his  first  appearance  as  an  author  with 
The  Pale  Horse.     The  book  created  a  sensa- 


INTRODUCTION  ix 

tion  when  it  was  published,  and  passed  through 
several  editions.  The  author's  personal  experi- 
ence gave  special  value  to  his  revelations,  and 
Ropshin  is  now  considered  one  of  the  foremost 
writers  of  the  younger  generation. 

His  second  book.  The  Tale  of  What  Was  Not, 
with  its  vivid  scenes  of  the  Moscow  barricades 
in  1905,  and  its  revelations  about  the  revolu- 
tionary parties  and  their  new  spirit,  was  also 
a  great  literary  success. 

Ropshin  has  also  written  short  stories,  and 
is  a  brilliant  journalist  as  well.  His  war  cor- 
respondence from  the  western  front  is  full  of 
colour,  and  has  a  very  personal  touch. 

The  Pale  Horse  gives  the  keynote  to  Rop- 
shin's  art  and  attitude  to  life,  and  is  certainly 
the  best  adapted  of  his  works  with  which  to 
introduce  him  to  the  Irish  and  English  reader. 


THE    PALE    HORSE 
PART  I 

' .  .  .  and  behold  a  pale  horse  ;  and  his  name  that 
sat  on  him  was  Death.  .   .  / — Revelation  vi.  8. 

^But  he  that  hateth  his  brother  is  in  darkness,  and 
walketh  in  darkness,  and  knoweth  not  whither  he 
goeth,  because  that  darkness  hath  blinded  his  eyes. ' — 
1  John  ii.  11. 

March  6. 
I  ARRIVED  last  night  at  N.  It  is  the  same  as  I 
last  saw  it.  The  crosses  glitter  on  the  churches, 
the  sledges  creak  as  they  glide  over  the  crisp 
snow.  The  mornings  are  frosty,  there  are  ice- 
flowers  on  the  window-panes,  the  bells  of  the 
monasteries  are  calling  to  Mass.  I  love  the 
town.     I  was  born  here. 

I  have  a  passport  bearing  the  red  seal  of 
the  King  of  England  and  the  signature  of 
Lord  Lansdowne.  The  passport  certifies  that 
I,  George  O'Brien,  British  subject,  have  under- 
taken a  journey  to  Turkey  and  Russia.  I  am 
registered  as  '  tourist '  by  the  Russian  police. 


2  THE  PALE  HORSE 

The  hotel  bores  me  to  weariness.  I  know  so 
we)!  its  hal'i-porter  in  his  blue  tunic,  its  gilt 
mirrors,  its  carpets.  There  is  a  shabby  sofa  in 
my  room  and  dusty  curtains.  I  have  placed 
three  kilograms  of  dynamite  under  the  table. 
I  have  brought  it  from  abroad.  The  dynamite 
smells  of  a  chemist's  shop.  I  have  headaches 
at  night. 

I  am  going  out  for  a  stroll  presently.  The 
boulevard  is  dark,  a  fine  snow  is  falling;  the 
clock  is  striking  at  a  distance.  I  am  quite 
alone.  Before  me  lies  the  peaceful  life  of  the 
town  and  its  slothful  people.  In  my  soul  re- 
sound the  sacred  words  : 

'  And  I  will  give  thee  the  morning  star.' 

March  8. 

Erna  has  blue  eyes  and  heavy  plaits  of  hair. 
She  clung  to  me  and  entreated  me  : 

'  Will  you  love  me  a  little  ?  ' 

Some  time  ago  she  gave  herself  to  me  like  a 
queen  :  she  never  asked  for  anything  in  return, 
and  entertained  no  hopes.  Now  she  implores 
me  for  love  like  a  beggar.  As  I  looked  through 
the  window  on  the  square  covered  with  snow 
I  said  to|lier|: 


THE  PALE  HORSE  S 

'  Look  how  immaculate  the  snow  is.' 

She  dropped  her  head  and  did  not  answer. 

I  then  said  : 

'  I  was  out  of  town  yesterday,  and  saw  even 
a  purer  snow.  It  was  quite  rosy.  And  the 
shadows  of  the  birch-trees  were  blue.' 

I  read  in  her  eyes  : 

'  Why  didn't  you  take  me  with  you  ?  ' 

'  Look  here,'  I  began  again,  '  have  you  ever 
been  deep  in  the  country  in  Russia  ?  ' 

She  answered  :    '  No.' 

'  Well,  in  the  early  spring,  when  the  new 
grass  begins  to  show  in  the  fields  and  the  snow- 
drops bloom  in  the  woods,  the  snow  still  lies 
in  the  ravines.  And  it  looks  so  odd  :  the  white 
snow  and  the  white  flowers.  Have  you  ever 
seen  that  ?  No  ?  Can  you  imagine  what  a 
strange  sight  it  is  ?  ' 

She  whispered  :    '  No.' 

And  I  was  thinking  of  Elena. 

March  9. 

The  governor  lives  in  an  old  house,  under  a 
double  guard  of  sentries  and  detectives. 

We  are  a  small  group  of  five.  Fedor,  Vania, 
and  Heinrich  are  disguised  as   sledge-drivers. 


4  THE  PALE  HORSE 

They  watch  all  his  movements  and  report  their 
observations  to  me.  Ema  is  an  expert  in 
chemistry.     She  will  prepare  the  bombs. 

I  am  sitting  in  my  room  and  studying  the 
plan  of  the  town.  I  am  niapping  out  the 
roads  we  must  follow.  I  try  to  reconstruct  his 
life,  his  daily  habits.  In  my  thoughts  I  am 
present  at  the  receptions  in  his  house;  I  take 
walks  with  him  in  the  garden,  behind  the  gate ; 
I  hide  beside  him  at  night,  I  say  prayers  with 
him  as  he  goes  to  bed. 

I  caught  a  glimpse  of  him  to-day.  I  was 
waiting  for  him  in  the  street,  and  I  walked  up 
and  down  the  frozen  sidewalk  for  a  long  time. 
It  was  getting  dark,  and  the  cold  was  severe. 
I  had  already  begun  to  give  up  hope,  when 
suddenly  the  police-inspector  at  the  corner 
brandished  his  glove.  The  policemen  stood  at 
attention,  the  detectives  ran  in  all  directions. 
A  deathlike  silence  filled  the  street. 

A  carriage  came  swiftly  past  me.  The  horses 
were  black.  The  driver  had  a  red  beard.  I 
noticed  the  curved  handles  of  the  doors,  the 
yellow  spokes  of  the  wheels.  A  sledge  followed 
closely  behind  the  carriage. 

I  could  hardly  discern  his  face  as  it  rapidly 


THE  PALE  HORSE  5 

passed  before  my  eyes.  And  he  did  not  notice 
me.  I  was  part  of  the  street  for  him.  I 
slowly  turned  home.     I  felt  happy. 

March  10. 

I  am  not  conscious  of  hate  or  anger  when  I 
think  of  him.  At  the  same  time  I  do  not  feel 
any  pity  for  him.  As  a  personality  he  leaves 
me  indifferent.  But  I  want  him  to  die. 
Strength  will  break  a  straw.  I  don't  believe 
in  words.  I  do  not  want  to  be  a  slave  myself, 
and  do  not  want  any  one  else  to  be  one. 

Why  shouldn't  one  kill  ?  And  why  is  murder 
justified  in  one  case  and  not  in  another  ?  People 
do  find  reasons,  but  I  don't  know  why  one 
should  not  kill ;  and  I  cannot  understand  why 
to  kill  in  the  name  of  this  or  that  is  considered 
right,  while  to  kill  in  the  name  of  something 
else  is  wrong. 

I  remember  the  first  time  I  went  hunting. 
The  white-crop  fields  were  red,  there  were  cob- 
webs everywhere,  the  wood  was  silent.  I 
stood  on  the  edge  of  the  wood  close  to  the  road 
ravaged  by  the  rain.  The  birches  were  whis- 
pering, the  yellow  leaves  were  flying  up  and 
down.     I  waited.     Suddenly  there  was  a  con- 


6  THE  PALE  HORSE 

fused  movement  in  the  grass.  A  hare,  looking 
Hke  a  small  grey  bundle,  rushed  out  of  the 
bushes  and  squatted  down  cautiously  on  his 
hind  legs.  He  looked  about  him.  I  tremblingly 
lifted  my  gun.  An  echo  resounded  far  in  the 
wood,  there  was  a  puff  of  blue  smoke  among 
the  birches.  On  the  darkened  grass,  wet 
with  blood,  the  wounded  hare  struggled  and 
whimpered  like  a  baby.  I  felt  sorry  for 
him.  I  fired  a  second  shot.  The  wailing 
ceased. 

At  home  I  forgot  all  about  him  as  if  he 
had  never  existed,  as  if  I  had  not  taken  from 
him  that  which  was  most  precious  to  him — his 
life.  And  I  ask  myself  why  I  suffered  when  I 
heard  his  outcry,  while  the  fact  that  I  killed 
him  for  my  amusement  did  not  arouse  any 
emotion  in  me. 

March  13. 
Elena  is  married  and  lives  here — ^that  is  all 
I  know  about  her.  Every  morning,  in  my 
leisure,  I  go  strolling  on  the  boulevard  to  see 
her  house.  The  white  frost  is  soft  like  down. 
The  snow  creaks  under  my  feet.  I  hear  the 
slow   strokes    of  the   tower   clock.     It   is   ten 


THE  PALE  HORSE  7 

o'clock.  I  sit  down  on  the  bench  and  patiently 
count  the  minutes.     I  say  to  myself : 

'  I  did  not  meet  her  yesterday,  but  I  may 
to-day.' 

I  saw  her  for  the  first  time  a  year  ago.  I 
passed  through  N.  in  the  spring,  and  went  one 
morning  to  the  large  park.  The  ground  was 
damp,  the  tall  oaks  and  the  slim  poplars 
loomed  above  it,  lost  in  an  all-pervading 
silence.  Even  the  birds  did  not  sing.  There 
was  only  the  low  murmur  of  the  brook.  I 
watched  its  ripples.  The  sun  gleamed  on  the 
water,  which  purled ;  I  listened  to  the  sound. 
When  I  lifted  my  eyes  I  saw  a  woman  on  the 
opposite  side.  She  did  not  notice  me.  But 
I  knew  that  we  were  listening  to  the  same 
thing. 

The  woman  was  Elena. 

March  14. 

I  am  sitting  in  my  room.  Some  one  in  the 
room  above  me  is  playing  the  piano.  I  can 
hear  it  but  faintly.  The  sound  of  footsteps  is 
lost  in  the  soft  carpet. 

I  am  used  to  the  uncertain  life  of  a  revolu- 
tionary and  its  loneliness.     I  do  not  think  of 


8  THE  PALE  HORSE 

my  future,  and  do  not  want  to  know  it.  I  try 
to  forget  the  past.  I  have  no  home,  no  name* 
no  family.     I  say  to  myself : 

Un  grand  sommeil  noir 
Tombe  sur  ma  vie. 
Dormez,  tout  espoir, 
Dormez^  toute  envie. 

But  hope  never  dies.  What  hope  ?  That 
of  securing  '  the  morning  star  '  ?  I  know  well : 
we  had  killed  yesterday,  we  will  kill  to-day, 
and  we  shall  go  on  killing  to-morrow.  '  And 
the  third  angel  poured  out  his  vial  upon  the 
rivers  and  fountains  of  waters  and  they  became 
blood.'  You  cannot  quench  blood  with  water, 
you  cannot  burn  it  out  with  fire.  It  will  be 
blood  all  the  way  to  the  grave. 

Je  ne  vois  plus  rien^ 
Je  perds  la  memoire 
Du  bien  et  du  mal. 
O,  la  triste  histoire  ! 

Happy  is  he  who  believes  in  the  Resurrection 
of  Christ,  in  the  Resurrection  of  Lazarus. 
Happy  is  he  who  believes  in  socialism,  in  the 
coming  paradise  on  earth.  These  old  tales 
seem  simply  ridiculous  to  me  :  fifteen  acres  of 
apportioned  land  do  not  tempt  me.     I  have 


THE  PALE  HORSE  9 

said  to  myself :  I  do  not  want  to  be  a  slave. 
Is  this  my  freedom  ?  It  is  indeed  a  poor 
freedom !  Why  am  I  pursuing  it  ?  In  the 
name  of  what  do  I  go  out  to  kill  ?  Is  it  only 
for  the  sake  of  blood,  and  more  blood  ?  .  .  . 

Je  suis  un  berceau 
Qu'une  main  balance 
Au  creux  d'un  caveau. 
Silence  .  .  .  Silence.  .  .  . 

There  is  a  knock  on  the  door.  It  must  be 
Erna. 

March  17. 

I  don't  know  why  I  have  taken  up  the  work, 
but  I  know  the  reasons  that  have  brought 
others  into  it.  Heinrich  is  convinced  that  it 
is  our  duty.  Fedor  joined  us  because  his  wife 
had  been  murdered.  Erna  says  she  is  ashamed 
to  live.  Vania  .  .  .  but  let  Vania  speak  for 
himself. 

Recently  we  spent  all  day  about  town  to- 
gether, he  acting  as  my  driver.  I  made  an 
appointment  with  him  in  a  tavern. 

He  came  in  high  boots  and  in  a  blue  tunic, 
such  as  are  worn  by  men  of  the  lower  class. 
He  has  grown  a  beard  and  wears  his  hair  cut 
round.     He  said  : 


10  THE  PALE  HORSE 

'  Now,  tell  me,  have  you  ever  thought  of 
Christ  ?  ' 

'  Of  whom  ?  ' 

'  Of  Christ,  of  the  God-Man  Christ  ?  Did 
you  ever  ask  yourself  what  you  ought  to  be- 
lieve in  and  how  you  ought  to  live  ?  In  my 
lodgings,  in  the  drivers'  yard,  I  often  read  the 
Gospels,  and  I  have  come  to  the  conclusion 
that  only  two  ways  are  open  to  men,  no  more 
than  two.  One  is  to  believe  that  everything 
is  permissible.  Please,  understand  me — every- 
thing, without  exception.  Now  that  leads  to 
the  making  of  such  a  character  as  Dostoyevsky's 
Smerdiakov,^  provided  a  man  has  a  mind  to 
dare  and  not  to  shrink  at  any  consideration. 
After  all,  there  is  logic  in  such  an  attitude  : 
since  God  does  not  exist,  since  Christ  is  but  a 
man,  there  is  no  love  as  well ;  there  is  nothing 
whatever  to  stop  you.  The  other  is  the  way 
of  Christ  which  leads  to  Christ.  Tell  me,  if 
there  is  love  in  a  man's  heart — I  mean  real, 
deep  love — could  he  kill  or  not  ?  ' 

I  replied  :    '  He  could,  in  any  case.' 

'  No,  not  in  any  case.  To  kill  is  a  great 
sin.  Just  remember  :  ''  Greater  love  hath  no 
*  The  maii-servaut  in  '  Brothers  Karamazov.' 


THE  PALE  HORSE  11 

man  than  this,  that  a  man  lay  down  his  Ufe 
for  his  friends."  And  he  must  lay  down  more 
than  his  life — his  soul.  He  must  ascend  his 
own  calvary  and  take  no  decision  unless  it  is 
urged  by  love — ^by  love  alone.  Any  other 
motive  would  bring  him  back  to  Smerdiakov. 
Take  my  own  life.  What  do  I  live  for  ?  Who 
knows  but  that  my  last  hour  may  prove  the 
one  I  had  to  live  my  whole  life  for.  I  pray  to 
God  :  Lord,  let  me  die  for  the  sake  of  love. 
Now,  is  one  likely  to  pray  for  the  sake  of 
murder  ?  A  man  may  kill,  but  he  will  not 
pray  about  it.  .  .  .  And  yet  I  know :  I  have 
not  enough  love  in  my  heart.  I  find  my  cross 
too  hard  to  bear.' 

'  Don't  you  laugh,'  he  said  a  moment  later ; 
'  there  is  nothing  to  laugh  at.  I  speak  of  God  and 
His  words,  and  you  probably  think  I  am  raving. 
Now,  do  you  really  think  I  am  ?     Tell  me.' 

I  made  no  reply. 

'  You  remember  St.  John  in  the  Revelation  : 
"  And  in  those  days  shall  men  seek  death  and 
shall  not  find  it,  and  shall  desire  to  die,  and 
death  shall  flee  from  them."  Can  there  be 
anything  more  ghastly  than  death  fleeing  from 
you  when  you  are  calling  for  her  ?     You  also 


12  THE  PALE  HORSE 

may  seek  death,  and  for  that  matter,  all  of 
us.  How  dare  we  shed  blood  ?  How  dare  we 
break  the  law  ?  Yet  we  do  one  and  the 
other.  You  don't  recognise  laws  :  blood  is 
like  water  to  you.  But  remember,  the  day 
will  come  when  you  shall  recall  my  words. 
You  will  long  for  the  end,  and  the  end  will 
not  come.  Death  will  flee  from  you.  I  be- 
Ueve  in  Christ ;  indeed  I  do.  But  I  am  not 
with  Him.  I  am  not  worthy  of  Him,  I  am 
bespattered  with  mire  and  blood.  Yet  Christ 
in  His  mercy  shall  come  to  me.' 

I  looked  intently  into  his  eyes  and  replied  : 

'  Why  kill,  then  ?     You  are  free  to  leave  us.' 

His  face  grew  quite  pale. 

'  How  dare  you  to  speak  like  that  ?  My  soul 
suffers  agonies.     But  I  cannot  ...  I  love.' 

'It's  all  simply  rot,  Vania.  Don't  think 
about  it  any  more.' 

He  did  not  answer. 

I  left  him,  and,  once  in  the  street,  I  forgot 
all  about  the  matter. 

March  19. 
Erna  wept  and  said  through  her  tears  : 
'  You  don't  love  me  any  more.' 


THE  PALE  HORSE  13 

She  was  sitting  in  my  armchair  and  covering 
her  face  with  her  hands.  How  strange  that  I 
never  noticed  before  how  large  her  hands  are. 

I  looked  at  her  very  intently  and  said  : 

'  Don't  cry,  Erna.' 

She  lifted  her  eyes  and  looked  at  me.  Her 
red  nose  and  her  drooping  under-lip  made  her 
ugly.  I  turned  away  from  her  towards  the 
window.  She  rose  from  her  armchair  and 
tugged  timidly  at  my  sleeve. 

'  I  am  sorry,  dear,'  she  said,  '  I  won't  cry 
any  more.' 

She  cries  rather  frequently.  First  her  eyes 
redden,  then  her  cheeks  begin  to  swell,  until 
finally  a  few  barely  perceptible  tears  begin  to 
roll  down  her  cheeks.  What  silent  tears  they 
are  ! 

I  took  her  on  my  knees. 

'  Listen,  Erna,'  I  said  to  her.  '  Did  I  ever 
say  I  loved  you  ?  ' 

'No.' 

'  Did  I  deceive  you  ?  Did  I  not  tell  you  that 
I  loved  another  woman  ?  ' 

She  did  not  answer.  She  only  shivered  from 
head  to  foot. 

'  Answer,  please.' 


14  THE  PALE  HORSE 

'  Yes,  you  did  tell  me  that.' 

'  Now  listen  :  I  will  tell  you  when  I  get  tired 
of  you.  I  promise  not  to  hide  it  from  you. 
You  trust  me,  don't  you  ?  ' 

'  Oh  yes,  I  do.' 

'  Well,  that  settles  it.  And  now  stop  your 
crying.     I  have  no  one  but  you.' 

I  kissed  her.     She  looked  happy  as  she  said  : 

'  Oh,  how  I  love  you  ! ' 

But  I  could  not  help  noticing  her  large 
hands. 

March  21. 

I  don't  know  a  word  of  English.  I  speak 
a  broken  Russian  in  the  hotel,  in  the  restaurant, 
and  in  the  street.  This  leads  to  occasional 
unpleasantness. 

I  went  to  the  theatre  last  night.  A  stout 
business  man  with  a  red,  perspiring  face,  sat 
next  to  me.  He  breathed  heavily  through  his 
nose  and  was  half  asleep  during  the  perform- 
ance. Between  the  acts  he  turned  to  me  with 
the  question  : 

'  What  is  your  nationality  ?  ' 

I  did  not  reply. 

'  Don't  you  hear  ?  '  he  asked  again.  '  I  want 
to  know  what  your  nationality  is.' 


THE  PALE  HORSE  15 

I  answered  without  looking  at  him  : 

'  I  am  a  subject  of  His  Majesty  the  King  of 
England.' 

This  did  not  seem  to  satisfy  him. 

'  Whose  subject  did  you  say  ? '  he  asked 
again. 

'  I  am  Enghsh.' 

*  Oh,  EngUsh.  .  .  .  Are  you  ?  Then  you 
belong  to  the  worst  nation  on  earth.  They 
helped  the  Japs  to  sink  our  flagship  at 
Tsushima,  that's  what  they  did.  And  now  you 
just  come  over  on  a  trip  to  Russia  as  if  nothing 
had  happened.     I  'd  put  a  stop  to  that ! ' 

People  began  to  look  at  us. 

'  I  must  ask  you  to  stop  addressing  your 
remarks  to  me,'  I  said  in  a  low  voice. 

'  I  will  hand  you  over  to  the  police ;  that 's 
what  I  am  going  to  do,'  he  went  on,  raising 
his  voice.  'Look  at  that  man!  He  might 
be  a  Japanese  spy  for  all  I  know,  or  a  swindler 
of  some  sort  or  other.  An  Englishman,  indeed  ! 
I  wonder  why  the  police  don't  keep  a  sharp 
look-out.' 

I  felt  for  the  revolver  in  my  pocket. 

'  I  ask  you  once  more  to  shut  up,'  I  enjoined 
him. 


16  THE  PALE  HORSE 

'  Shut  up,  you  say !  No,  sir ;  let  us  go  to 
the  police  station,  you  and  me.  There  they 
will  find  out  what 's  what.  Spies  are  not 
allowed  in  our  country,  let  me  tell  you  !  No, 
I  say.     Three  cheers  for  Holy  Russia  ! ' 

I  got  up  and  looked  straight  into  his  round, 
bloodshot  eyes. 

'  I  warn  you  for  the  third  time :  shut  up  ! ' 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  sat  down 
without  a  word. 

I  left  the  theatre. 

March  24. 

Heinrich  is  just  twenty-two.  As  a  student 
he  used  to  speak  at  meetings.  In  those  days  he 
wore  glasses  and  long  hair.  Now,  he  has  be- 
come rather  coarse,  like  Vania  :  he  is  lean  and 
usually  unshaven.  His  horse  is  also  lean,  the 
trappings  show  much  wear,  the  sledge  is  a 
second-hand  bargain.  He  is  the  usual  sledge- 
driver  from  the  poorest  class. 

The  other  day  he  took  me  and  Erna  out  for 
a  drive  in  his  sledge.  When  we  had  passed  out 
of  the  town  gate,  he  turned  round  and  said  : 

'  I  had  some  trouble  with  a  priest  a  few 
days  ago.  He  gave  me  an  address  in  Round 
Square   and   arranged  to  pay  fifteen  kopecks 


THE  PALE  HORSE  17 

for  the  fare.  Now  I  did  not  know  where  the 
place  was,  and  simply  drove  him  round  and 
round  the  streets  until  finally  he  lost  his 
temper  and  began  to  abuse  me.  "  You 
scoundrel,"  he  said,  "  you  don't  know  your 
way.  I  will  hand  you  over  to  the  police." 
"  A  driver,"  he  went  on,  "  ought  to  know  the 
town  as  well  as  if  it  were  his  own  bag  of  oats. 
You  surely  have  got  your  certificate  by  fraud  : 
you  must  have  bribed  some  one  with  a  rouble 
or  so,  and  they  let  you  pass  without  an  exami- 
nation." I  had  the  greatest  difficulty  in  con- 
ciliating him.  "  I  humbly  beg  your  pardon, 
sir,"  I  said  to  him.  "  Do  forgive  me  for  the 
sake  of  Christ !  "  And  he  was  right.  I  had 
not  passed  the  examination  as  required.  I 
got  the  tramp  Karpusha  to  pass  it  for  me, 
and  paid  him  fifty  kopecks  for  his  trouble.' 

Erna  hardly  listened  to  him,  but  he  went 
on  with  great  volubility  : 

'  I  had  another  adventure  quite  lately.  I 
was  engaged  as  a  driver  by  an  old  gentleman 
and  his  wife.  They  seemed  to  be  decent 
people  of  the  better  class — quite  an  old  pair. 
I  drove  them  through  Long  Street  just  at  the 
moment    when    the    tramcar    paused    at    the 

B 


18  THE  PALE  HORSE 

stopping  place.  Without  as  much  as  looking 
at  it,  I  darted  across  the  rails.  The  old  gentle- 
man in  the  sledge  jumped  to  his  feet  and 
kicked  me  violently  on  the  back  of  my  neck. 
"  You  villain  !  "  he  cried,  "  do  you  want  to 
get  us  run  over  ?  What  do  you  mean  by 
driving  like  a  madman,  you  dog  !  " 

'  "  Your  Highness  need  not  be  alarmed,"  I 
said.  "  It 's  quite  a  simple  matter  to  get  across. 
There  was  plenty  of  time  before  the  car  moved 
on."  Then  I  heard  the  woman  say  to  him 
in  French :  "I  wish,  Jean,  you  didn't  get 
into  such  fits  of  rage.  It 's  very  bad  for  your 
health,  and  a  driver  is,  after  all,  a  human 
being."  She  actually  said  that :  a  driver  is, 
after  all,  a  human  being.  And  he  answered 
in  Russian :  "  That  may  be  true,  but  this 
fellow  is  a  beast  for  all  that.  .  .  ."  "  O  Jean," 
she  said,  "  you  ought  to  be  ashamed  to  speak 
like  that."  Then  I  felt  him  tapping  my 
shoulder.  *' I  am  sorry,  my  friend,"  he  said; 
"  I  hope  you  won't  mind."  And  he  gave  me 
a  tip  of  twenty  kopecks.  .  .  .  They  must  have 
been  liberals.  .  .  .  Gee-up  there,  old  girl !  ' 

Heinrich  lashed  his  poor,  jagged  horse.  Erna 
drew  stealthily  near  me. 


THE  PALE  HORSE  19 

'  I  say,  Erna  Jakovlevna,  how  do  you  like 
it  here  ?     Have  you  got  used  to  the  work  ?  ' 

Heinrich  asked  the  question  rather  shyly, 
Erna  answered  reluctantly  : 

'  I  am  quite  satisfied.  Of  course,  I  've  got 
quite  used  to  the  work.' 

To  the  right  of  us  were  the  black  skeletons 
of  the  bare  trees,  on  the  left  the  white  cloth 
of  the  fields.  The  town  stretched  behind  us. 
The  churches  gleamed  in  the  sunlight. 

Heinrich  stopped  talking :  save  for  the 
creaking  of  the  sledge,  there  was  complete 
silence.  Heinrich  brought  us  back  to  town, 
and,  as  I  stepped  out  of  his  sledge,  I  put  fifty 
kopecks  into  his  hand.  He  took  off  his  cap 
covered  with  frost  and  for  a  long  time  his  eyes 
followed  us. 

Erna  whispered  : 

'  May  I  come  to  you  this  evening,  darling  ?  ' 

March  28. 
The  governor  evidently  anticipates  an  at- 
tempt on  his  life.  He  suddenly  left  for 
Podgornoe  last  night.  We  followed  him  there. 
Vania,  Fedor,  and  Heinrich  took  their  posts 
of  observation  at  different  points.     I  strolled 


20  THE  PALE  HORSE 

about  the  streets,  which  was  the  duty  assigned 
to  me. 

We  know  a  good  deal  about  him  now.  We 
cannot  fail,  and  soon  we  shall  be  able  to  fix 
a  day.     Vania  is  the  jfirst  to  .  .  . 

March  29. 

Andrei  Petrovich  is  here.  He  is  a  member  of 
the  Central  Committee,  and  has  to  his  credit 
long  years  of  hard  labour  in  the  mines  and 
of  exile  in  Siberia ;  he  has  lived  the  life  of  an 
old  revolutionary.  He  has  melancholy  eyes  and 
a  pointed  grey  beard. 

We  went  together  to  a  restaurant. 

'  You  know,  George,'  he  began  in  an  em- 
barrassed manner,  '  there  is  some  talk  of  sus- 
pending the  work  for  some  time.  What  do 
you  think  of  it  ?  ' 

'  Waiter,'  I  called  out,  '  put  on  ''  The  Bells 
of  Corneville  "  on  the  gramophone.' 

Andrei  Petrovich  lowered  his  eyes. 

'  You  won't  listen  to  me,'  he  said,  '  yet  it 's 
a  very  grave  matter.  How  can  our  present 
tactics  be  reconciled  with  parliamentary  work  ? 
We  must  take  a  definite  and  consistent  stand. 
One  thing  or  another.     We  must  either  adopt 


THE  PALE  HORSE  21 

constitutional  principles  and  try  to  get  into 
Parliament,  or  frankly  set  up  opposition,  and 
then,  of  course  .  .  .  Well,  what  do  you 
think  ?  ' 

'  What  do  I  think  ?     Nothing/ 

'  But,  please,  do  make  up  your  mind.  Things 
may  come  to  the  point  of  dismissing  you — I 
mean  your  organisation.' 

'  What  ?  '  I  asked  rather  sharply. 

'  To  dismiss  is  not  the  right  word,  but — well, 
how  should  I  put  it  ?  .  .  .  Of  course  we  know, 
George  .  .  .  We  understand  .  .  .  We  are  aware 
of  what  a  disappointment  it  would  be  to  our 
comirades.  We  value  so  highly.  .  .  .  And,  after 
all,  nothing  is  yet  settled.' 

His  face  was  a  lemon  yellow,  and  there 
were  wrinkles  round  his  eyes.  He  surely  lived 
in  poor  suburban  lodgings,  subsisted  on  tea 
prepared  on  a  spirit  lamp,  wore  a  thin  over- 
coat all  the  winter,  and  spent  all  his  time  in 
planning  and  discussing.     He  was  '  doing  work.' 

'  Look  here,  Andrei  Petrovich,'  I  said  to 
him,  '  just  go  on  passing  resolutions — you  are 
quite  entitled  to  that.  Yet  no  matter  what 
decisions  you  make  we  will  go  on  doing  our 
work  all  the  same.' 


22  THE  PALE  HORSE 

'  Do  you  mean  it  ?  You  'd  refuse  to  submit 
to  the  decision  of  the  Central  Committee  ?  ' 

'  Yes/ 

'  But,  I  say,  George  .  .  .' 

'  It 's  my  last  word,  Andrei  Petrovich/ 

'  And  what  about  the  party  ?  '  he  urged  me. 

'  What  about  the  work  ?  '  I  rejoined. 

He  heaved  a  sigh  and  stretched  out  his  hand 
to  me. 

'  I  am  not  going  to  repeat  to  them  what 
you  have  told  me,'  he  said.  '  I  hope  things 
will  turn  all  right  somehow.  You  are  not 
provoked  with  me,  are  you  ?  ' 

'No.' 

'  Good-bye,  George.' 

'  Good-bye,  Andrei  Petrovich.' 

The  sky  was  thick  with  stars,  a  sign  of 
approaching  cold  weather.  The  small,  de- 
serted streets  had  an  uncanny  look.  Andrei 
Petrovich  had  to  make  haste  to  catch  his  train. 
Poor  old  man,  poor  grown-up  child  !  .  .  .  Yet 
theirs  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven. 

March  80. 
I    have    resumed    my    strolls    near    Elena's 
house.     It  is  a  very  large,  grey,  and  massive 


THE  PALE  HORSE  28 

structure.  The  landlord  is  a  merchant,  Kupo- 
rossov.  How  can  Elena  live  in  such  a 
house  ? 

I  know  it  is  stupid  to  stand  in  the  frost, 
to  walk  again  and  again  past  closed  doors,  to 
wait  for  something  that  is  not  likely  to  happen. 
Suppose  I  should  really  meet  her,  would  that 
make  any  difference  ?     Surely  not. 

I  met  Elena's  husband  yesterday  in  the 
main  street.  I  saw  him  first  at  a  distance, 
as  he  stopped  at  a  shop  window  to  look  at 
some  photographs.  He  had  his  back  turned 
to  me.  I  came  nearer,  and  stood  at  his  side. 
He  is  a  tall,  slim,  fair-haired  man  of  about 
twenty-five,  an  army  officer. 

He  turned  round  and  knew  me  at  once.  I 
saw  malice  and  jealousy  in  his  eyes  which 
darkened  at  recognition.  I  don't  know  what 
he  saw  in  mine. 

I  am  neither  jealous  of  him,  nor  do  I  hate 
him.  But  he  stands  in  my  way.  There  is 
something  else.  As  I  looked  at  him,  the  words 
came  back  to  me  : 

If  a  louse  in  your  shirt 
Mocks  you  :  ^  you  are  a  flea,' 
Then  go  out  and  kill ! 


24  THE  PALE  HORSE 

It  is  thawing  to-day,  the  rivulets  are  running 
down  the  slopes.  The  puddles  are  gleaming  in 
the  sunlight.  The  snow  is  melting,  there  is  a 
smell  of  spring,  of  the  invigorating  dampness 
of  the  woods  in  the  country  air.  The  nights 
are  still  frosty,  but  in  the  middle  of  the  day 
the  ground  becomes  slippery  and  the  roofs 
begin  to  drip. 

I  spent  the  last  spring  in  the  south.  The 
nights  were  pitch  dark  but  for  the  brightness 
of  the  Orion.  In  the  mornings  I  used  to  walk 
down  the  gravel  beach  on  my  way  to  the 
sea.  The  heather  was  in  full  bloom  in  the 
woods,  and  the  white  lilies  as  well.  I  climbed 
the  cliffs.  The  scorching  sun  shone  above  my 
head,  and  far  below  me  I  could  see  the  trans- 
parent greenness  of  the  sea.  The  lizards  were 
darting  on  the  stones,  the  mosquitoes  buzzed 
in  the  air.  I  loved  to  lie  on  the  hot  stones  and 
to  listen  to  the  waves.  Time  would  pass  and 
all  would  suddenly  vanish  out  of  my  sight — 
the  sea,  the  wood,  the  spring  flowers.  The 
whole  universe  became  one  vast  body  filled 
with  the  infinite  bliss  of  life.  .  .  . 

And  now  ? 

A    friend    of   mine,    a    Belgian    officer,    has 


THE  PALE  HORSE  25 

described  to  me  his  life  while  on  service  in 
the  Congo.  He  was  alone  there  and  had  fifty 
black  soldiers  under  his  command.  His  cordon 
was  quartered  on  the  bank  of  a  large  river 
where  the  sun  affords  no  warmth,  and  where 
there  is  a  constant  danger  of  yellow  fever. 
Across  the  river  lived  a  tribe  of  independent 
negroes  who  had  their  own  king  and  their  own 
laws.  Day  was  followed  by  night,  and  then 
it  was  again  day.  And  in  the  morning,  at 
midday,  and  in  the  evening  he  saw  the  same 
turbid  river  with  its  sandy  banks,  the  same 
bright  green  creepers,  the  same  blacks  who 
spoke  an  incomprehensible  language.  Some- 
times, to  while  away  the  idle  hours,  he  took  his 
gun  and  aimed  at  some  curly  head  in  the 
foliage. 

Whenever  his  black  men  succeeded  in  cap- 
turing a  negro  from  across  the  river,  they 
bound  the  prisoner  to  a  post,  and,  to  while 
away  the  time,  they  used  him  as  a  target  for 
shooting.  And  vice  versa  :  whenever  one  of 
the  officer's  men  was  caught  on  the  opposite 
bank  of  the  river,  he  had  his  legs  and  his 
arms  cut  off,  and  was  placed  in  the  river  and 
left  there  all  night  with  only  his  head  sticking 


26  THE  PALE  HORSE 

out.  The  next  morning  he  had  his  head 
cut  off. 

I  wonder  whether  the  white  men  differ  from 
the  black.  What  is  the  difference  ?  A  choice 
must  be  made  :  either  '  Thou  shalt  not  kill ' — 
in  which  case  we  all  are  murderers,  just  as  the 
blacks  are  ;  or  '  eye  for  eye  and  tooth  for  tooth ' 
— in  which  case  there  is  hardly  need  for 
justification.  Such  is  my  desire,  and  I  do  what 
I  like.  Is  not  there  an  element  of  cowardice 
in  the  plea  for  justification  and  too  much 
concern  for  other  people's  opinions  ?  Why 
should  one  fear  to  be  called  a  murderer  and 
wish  to  be  called  a  hero  ?  After  all,  what  do 
I  care  for  what  other  people  might  say  ? 

Raskolnikov  killed  an  old  woman  and  was 

himself  choked  by  her  blood.     Yet  Vania  goes 

out  to  kill,  and  he  will  be  happy  and  blessed. 

Will  he,  I  wonder  ?     He  does  it  for  the  sake  of 

love,  he  says.     But  does  love  exist  ?    Did  Christ 

actually  rise  from  the  dead  on  the  third  day  ? 

.  .  .  That 's  all  words  and  nothing  more.  .  .  . 

No: 

If  a  louse  in  your  shirt 
Mocks  you  :  ^you  are  a  flea/ 
Then  go  out  and  kill ! 


THE  PALE  HORSE  27 

April  6. 

The  holy  week  is  over.  The  merry  bells  are 
ringing  to-day.  It  is  Easter  Sunday.  The 
night  passed  in  joyous  processions,  in  the 
praise  of  Christ.  The  streets  have  been 
thronged  since  morning ;  there  is  no  room  for 
an  apple  to  fall.  Peasant  women  with  white 
kerchiefs  on  their  heads,  soldiers,  beggars  in 
rags,  schoolboys  in  their  uniforms,  they  all 
kiss,  crack  sunflower-seeds,  chatter,  laugh,  and 
gossip.  Red  Easter  eggs  are  sold  on  the 
stands,  and  gingerbreads,  and  '  American 
devils,'  and  coloured  balloons  fastened  to 
ribbons.  The  crowd  is  buzzing  like  bees  in 
their  hive. 

In  my  childhood  we  used  to  prepare  for  the 
sacrament  during  the  sixth  week  of  the  Lent. 
We  kept  the  fast  the  whole  week,  and  on  the 
day  of  the  communion  no  food  whatever  was 
touched  until  after  the  administration  of  the 
sacrament.  Then  came  the  Passion  week.  .  .  . 
Oh,  the  fervour  of  our  genuflexions;  the  pas- 
sionate clinging  to  the  Saviour's  grave  exposed 
in  the  church  !  '  Lord,  forgive  me  my  sins.' 
The  Easter  matins  gave  one  the  feeling  of 
paradise  :    there  was  the  bright  glow  of  the 


28  THE  PALE  HORSE 

candles,  the  smell  of  the  wax,  the  white  robes 
of  the  clergy,  the  golden  shrine.  .  .  .  The  ex- 
citement took  one's  breath  away.  Shall  Christ 
arise  soon  ?  Shall  we  soon  go  home  with  the 
consecrated  Easter  loaf  ? 

At  home  everything  was  in  festive  array. 
Holiday  was  in  the  air  during  the  whole  Easter 
week. 

To-day  I  feel  quite  out  of  touch  with  every- 
thing. The  bells  jar  on  my  nerves,  the  laugh- 
ing crowd  annoys  me.  I  wish  I  could  go  away, 
anywhere  out  of  this,  and  never  come  back. 

'  Try  your  luck,  sir.'  A  little  girl  pushed  an 
envelope  into  my  hands. 

The  girl  is  barefoot  and  in  rags.  There  is 
nothing  festive  in  her  appearance.  The  piece 
of  grey  paper  I  buy  from  her  contains  this 
prophecy : 

*  If  bad  luck  pursues  you,  do  not  lose 
hope  and  do  not  give  way  to  despair.  You 
will  conquer  the  greatest  difficulties  and  you 
will  force  Fortune  to  turn  her  wheel  towards 
you.  Your  enterprise  will  be  crowned  with 
complete  success,  a  greater  one  than  you  dare 
to  anticipate.' 

Now,  is  not  this  a  nice  Easter  egg  for  me  ? 


THE  PALE  HORSE  29 

April  7, 

Vania  lives  in  the  drivers'  yard  with  the 
other  men.  He  sleeps  side  by  side  with  them 
on  the  sleeping  benches.  He  eats  out  of  the 
common  kettle.  He  looks  after  his  horse  him- 
self, and  cleans  his  own  carriage.  He  spends 
the  whole  day  in  the  street  driving  his  car- 
riage. He  does  not  complain.  He  is  quite 
satisfied  with  his  work. 

He  put  on  a  new  tunic  to-day,  his  hair  was 
freshly  oiled,  and  his  boots  creaked  smartly. 

He  said  to  me  : 

'  Easter  has  come  at  last.  It  is  good.  .  .  . 
Christ  is  risen  :  that  is  true,  George.' 

'  Well,  what  is  the  good  of  it  ?  ' 

'  Oh,  you  are  .  .  .  You  've  no  joy  in  you. 
You  don't  accept  the  universe  as  it  is.' 

'  Do  you  ?  ' 

'  I  ?  That 's  different  altogether.  But  I  am 
sorry  for  you,  my  dear  George.' 

'Sorry?' 

'  Yes.  .  .  .  You  love  no  one,  not  even  your- 
self. .  .  .  We  have  a  driver  in  the  yard, 
Tikhon — such  a  dark-skinned,  curly-haired 
peasant.  He  is  as  malicious  as  a  devil.  He 
was  very  rich  in  his  time,  but  lost  all  he  had  in 


80  THE  PALE  HORSE 

a  big  fire.  People  had  set  fire  to  his  house 
out  of  spite.  He  can't  get  over  it,  and  he 
curses  everybody  and  everything.  He  curses 
God,  the  students,  the  tradespeople,  even  the 
children.  He  hates  them  all.  "  They  are  dogs, 
the  whole  lot  of  them,"  he  says.  "  They  suck 
the  blood  out  of  Christians,  and  God  enjoys 
the  sight  of  it,  as  He  looks  down  on  them 
from  Heaven."  .  .  .  One  day  I  came  into  the 
yard  after  leaving  the  tea-house,  and  there 
was  Tikhon  right  in  the  middle  of  the  yard. 
He  stood  with  his  legs  wide  apart,  with  his 
sleeves  rolled  up.  He  held  the  reins  in  his 
big  fist  and  was  lashing  his  horse  with  them 
across  the  eyes.  The  miserable  jade,  with 
hardly  any  life  left  in  her,  tried  to  pull  up 
her  head  to  dodge  the  blows,  but  he  went  on 
lashing  her  eyes  again  and  again.  "  You  old 
carcass,"  he  shouted  in  a  hoarse  voice,  "you 
beast!  I  will  give  it  to  you;  I  will  teach 
you  .  .  ."  "  Why  do  you  beat  the  poor 
beast,  Tikhon  ? "  I  asked  him.  "  Shut  up, 
you  dirty  fool !  "  he  answered,  and  only  lashed 
the  horse  with  increased  fury. 

'  The  yard  was  dirty,  there  was  a  foul  smell 
of  horse  dung,  and  all  the  drivers  came  out  in 


THE  PALE  HORSE  81 

a  crowd  and  stood  around  laughing.  They 
seemed  to  enjoy  the  performance.  ''  Tikhon 
is  having  the  time  of  his  hfe,"  they  said.  .  .  . 
That  is  just  what  you  are  doing,  George.  You 
want  to  lash  every  one  across  the  eyes  with 
the  reins,  my  poor  friend.' 

Vania  bit  off  a  small  piece  of  sugar,  and, 
lingering  over  his  tea,  proceeded  : 

'  Don't  be  cross  with  me,  George,  and  don't 
laugh.  Do  you  know  what  I  think  ?  We  are 
poor-spirited,  all  of  us.  What  is  our  driving 
force  in  life  ?  Hate,  just  bare  hate.  We 
don't  love,  we  don't  know  what  it  is  to  love. 
We  strangle,  we  kill,  and  we  burn,  and  we 
are  also  strangled,  hanged,  and  burned.  In 
the  name  of  what  is  it  done  ?     Tell  me.' 

I  shrugged  my  shoulders. 

'  Ask  Heinrich,  Vania.' 

'  Oh,  Heinrich  !  He  believes  in  setting  men 
free  and  in  giving  them  all  food.  But  that 
is  Martha's  part.  But  what  of  Maria's  part  ? 
I  quite  agree  that  a  man  may  be  willing  to 
die  for  the  cause  of  liberty,  and  not  for  free- 
dom alone,  but  for  the  sake  of  a  single  tear, 
I  also  pray  to  God  :  Let  there  be  no  slaves 
on  earth,  let  no  one  go  hungry.     Yet  that  is 


32  THE  PALE  HORSE 

not  everything,  George.  We  know  that  the 
hfe  of  men  is  based  on  untruth.  But  where 
is  truth  ?     Tell  me  that,  if  you  can.' 

'  What  is  truth  ?  Is  that  what  you  mean  ?  ' 
'  Yes,  what  is  truth  ?  You  remember  :  "To 
this  end  was  I  born,  and  for  this  cause  came  I 
into  the  world,  that  I  should  bear  witness  unto 
the  truth.  Every  one  that  is  of  the  truth 
heareth  my  voice."  ' 

'  Vania,  Christ  said  :  Thou  shalt  not  kill.' 
'  I  know,  but  don't  yet  speak  of  blood.  Tell 
me  something  else.  Europe  has  given  the 
world  two  great  words  and  has  sealed  them 
with  her  suffering.  The  first  one  is  freedom, 
the  second  is  socialism.  But  what  word  have 
we  given  the  world  ?  Much  blood  has  been 
shed  in  the  name  of  freedom.  Yet  who  be- 
lieves in  freedom  ?  Much  blood  has  been 
shed  for  socialism.  Yet  do  you  really  think 
socialism  is  heaven  on  earth  ?  Who  has  gone 
to  the  stake  for  the  sake  of  love,  in  the  name 
of  love  ?  Did  any  one  of  us  ever  dare  to 
say  :  It  is  not  enough  that  men  should  be 
free,  that  children  should  not  starve,  that 
mothers  should  not  cry  out  their  eyes  ?  Even 
more  than  this,  they  have  need,  great  need, 


THE  PALE  HORSE  38 

to  love  one  another.     God  must  be  with  them, 
and  in  their  hearts.     Yet  it  is  precisely  God 
and    love    that    they    have    forgotten.      But 
Martha  is  only  half  the  truth.     The  other  half 
is  Maria.     Where  is  our  Maria  ?     A  great  cause 
is  being  fought  now  and  I  strongly  believe  in 
it.     It   is   the   cause   of  the   peasants,    of  all 
Christians:    more  than  that,   it  is  the  cause 
of  Christ.     It  is  being  fought  for  the  sake  of 
God,  for  the  sake  of  love.     Men  shall  be  free, 
they  shall  be  fed,  and  a  life  of  love  will  be 
theirs.     And  I  also  believe:  our  people  is  the 
people  of  God.     It  is  inspired  with  love,  and    t 
Christ  dwells  in  its  midst.     Ours  is  the  word     ^ 
of   resurrection  :     Lord,    come    out !  .  .  .  Our 
faith  is  small,  and  we  are  weak  like  children. 
That  is  why  we  take  up  the  sword.     Not  be- 
cause of  our  strength  do  we  wield  the  sword, 
but  because  of  our  weakness  and  of  our  fear. 
But  wait  for  those  who  will  come  to-morrow  : 
they  will  be  pure.     They  shall  not  need  the 
sword,  they  will  be  strong.     Yet  before  they 
come    we    shall    perish.     And    our    children's 
grandchildren  shall  love  God.     They  shall  live 
in  God  and  rejoice  in  Christ.     The  world  will 
be    revealed    to    them    anew,    and    they    will 


84  THE  PALE  HORSE 

discover  in  it  all  that  we  are  unable  to  see 
at  present.  .  .  .  And  oh,  George  !  To-day  is 
Easter  Sunday.  Christ  is  arisen  !  So  let  us 
forget  our  injuries  just  for  this  one  day,  and 
let  us  stop  slashing  each  other  across  the 
eyes  .  .  .' 

He  stopped  rather  abruptly,  as  if  a  new 
thought  suddenly  struck  him. 

'  What  is  the  matter,  Vania  ?  You  seemed 
about  to  say  something  ?  ' 

'  I  will  tell  you.     It 's  impossible  to  break 

the  chain.     There  is  no  way  out  for  me,  none 

■whatever.     I  am  out  to  kill,  yet  I  believe  in 

the    Word,    I    adore    Christ.     Oh,    the    agony 

of  it !  ' 

The  tavern  was  full  of  the  din  of  drunken 
men  who  were  celebrating  the  festive  day. 
Vania  bowed  his  head  low  over  the  table- 
cloth and  waited.  What  could  I  do  .  .  .  but 
lash  him  across  his  eyes  with  the  reins  ? 

A2ml  8. 
The  next  time  we  met,  Vania  said  : 
'  Shall  I  tell  you  when  I  knew  Christ  for 
the  first  time  and  became  aware  of  God  ?     I 
was  an  exile  in  Siberia  at  the  time.     One  day 


THE  PALE  HORSE  85 

I  went  out  hunting.  The  place  was  the  Obj 
estuary,  and  at  the  point  where  it  flows  into 
the  ocean  the  Obj  is  Hke  the  sea.  The  sky 
is  low  and  grey,  the  turbulent  river  is  also 
grey.  The  banks  are  out  of  sight,  they  don't 
seem  to  exist.  A  boat  landed  me  on  a  small 
island  :  it  was  agreed  that  my  friends  should 
come  back  for  me  in  the  evening.  I  strolled 
about  the  island  and  shot  at  the  ducks.  The 
place  was  all  swamps,  decayed  birches,  tiny 
green  mounds  and  moss.  I  walked  on  and  on, 
until  the  bank  was  completely  lost  to  view. 
The  duck  I  shot  fell  somewhere,  but  I  could 
not  find  it.  While  I  was  looking  for  it  night 
came  on  :  it  grew  dark,  the  fog  crept  up  the 
river.  I  made  up  my  mind  to  return  to  the 
bank,  and  took  the  direction  of  the  wind  to 
be  sure  of  my  way.  But  with  my  first  step 
my  feet  began  to  sink  into  the  ground.  I 
tried  to  gain  a  footing  on  a  mound,  but  no — ^it 
was  impossible.  I  found  myself  sinking  into 
the  swamp.  I  sank  very  slowly,  about  half  an 
inch  a  minute. 

'  It  grew  cold  and  began  to  rain.  I  pulled 
up  one  foot  to  drag  it  out,  but  I  only  sank 
an   inch   deeper.      Then,    in   utter    despair,    I 


86  THE  PALE  HORSE 

took  my  gun  and  began  firing  in  the  air.  I 
hoped  some  one  would  hear  and  come  to  my 
rescue.  .  .  . 

'  Except  for  the  hissing  of  the  wind  there 
was  silence.  And  there  I  was  standing  in  the 
swamp  almost  up  to  my  knees.  I  thought : 
The  swamp  will  suck  me  in,  there  will  be 
bubbles  bursting  over  my  head,  and  just  as 
before,  there  will  be  nothing  left  but  the  green 
mounds.  I  felt  so  sick  at  heart  that  I  almost 
wept.  Then  I  pulled  up  my  foot  again — and 
was  the  worse  for  it.  I  felt  cold  like  ice,  and 
was  shivering  like  an  aspen  :  so  that  was  how 
I  was  going  to  die — at  the  world's  end  ...  in 
a  swamp  .  .  .  like  a  fly.  .  .  .  And  I  felt  as  if 
my  heart  had  suddenly  become  quite  empty. 
Nothing  mattered  :  I  was  going  to  die.  I  bit 
my  lips  until  the  blood  came,  and  I  pulled  up 
one  foot  as  hard  as  I  could.  This  time  I 
succeeded.  One  foot  was  free,  and  a  great 
joy  came  over  me.  The  boot  remained  stick- 
ing in  the  swamp  and  the  foot  was  bleeding.  I 
managed  to  obtain  a  footing  on  a  mound ; 
then,  leaning  on  my  gun,  I  began  dragging  the 
other  foot  out  of  the  mire.  When,  finally,  I 
stood  up  on  both  legs  I  did  not  dare  to  move  : 


THE  PALE  HORSE  87 

I  was  afraid  that  my  first  step  would  draw  me 
back  again  into  the  swamp.  I  remained  stand- 
ing the  whole  night  on  that  spot,  until  the 
dawn  came.  And  it  was  then,  during  that 
long  night,  as  I  stood  in  the  middle  of  a 
swamp — with  the  rain  falling,  and  the  black 
sky,  and  the  howling  wind — that  I  realised  in 
the  very  depth  of  my  heart  that  God  is  above 
us  and  within  us.  And  all  fear  was  gone, 
there  was  nothing  but  joy  in  me;  a  great 
weight  fell  from  my  heart.  The  next  morning 
my  friends  came  and  rescued  me.' 

'  There  are  many  who  see  God  at  the  ap- 
proach of  death.  It  is  fear  that  makes  them 
see  Him,  Vania.' 

'  Fear,  you  say  ?  That  may  be  so.  But  do 
you  think  you  could  see  God  in  this  dirty 
place  ?  The  soul  is  exulted  at  the  approach  of 
death,  when  the  border  is  in  sight.  That  is 
why  in  most  cases  men  see  God  in  the  hour 
of  their  death.  I  also  saw  Him  when  death 
came  near.' 

'  I  can  tell  you,'  he  went  on  after  a  pause, 
'  I  can  tell  you — ^nothing  can  make  you  happier 
than  to  see  God.  As  long  as  you  don't  know 
Him,    He   never   enters   your   thoughts.     You 


88  THE  PALE  HORSE 

think  of  all  sorts  of  things,  but  never  of  Him. 
Some  people  have  got  the  superman  on  their 
brains.  Just  think :  the  superman !  And 
they  actually  think  they  have  discovered  the 
philosopher's  stone,  have  solved  the  problem  of 
life.  In  my  eyes  they  all  are  like  Smerdiakov. 
They  say  :  I  cannot  love  those  who  are  nearest, 
so  instead  I  love  those  who  are  furthest.  .  .  . 
But  how  could  you  love  those  who  are  far 
from  you  since  you  are  without  love  for  those 
who  are  around  you  ?  It  is  easy  to  die  for 
others,  to  give  them  your  death.  But  how 
much  harder  is  it  to  live  for  men.  It  means 
to  live  by  love  every  single  day,  every  minute 
of  one's  life;  to  love,  as  God  loves,  all  men, 
all  that  is  alive — to  forget  one's  own  existence, 
to  create  life  not  for  oneself,  and  not  for  those 
distant.  We  have  become  harsh,  we  are  like 
beasts.  Is  it  not  distressing  to  see  how  men 
flounder  about  ?  how  they  seek  and  cannot  find  ? 
They  believe  in  Chinese  gods,  in  wooden  logs, 
and  they  are  unable  to  believe  in  God  and  to 
love  Christ !  We  are  corroded  by  that  poison 
from  our  childhood.  Take  Heinrich.  He  can 
never  call  a  flower  simply  a  flower  :  he  must 
always  add  :    a  flower  of  this  or  that  family, 


THE  PALE  HORSE  89 

such  and  such  species,  with  such  petals,  such 
corolla  ;  these  petty  details  make  him  overlook 
the  flower  itself.  And  that 's  how  we  lose 
the  sight  of  God  because  of  worthless  futilities. 
It 's  all  mathematics  and  reason  with  us.  But 
when  I  stood  on  the  little  mound  that  night, 
in  the  midst  of  a  swamp,  and  waited  for  death — 
it  was  then  I  realised  that  reason  is  not  every- 
thing, that  there  is  something  above  it :  but 
we  have  blinkers  on  our  eyes,  we  don't  see,  we 
don't  know.     Why  do  you  laugh,  George  ?  ' 

'  Well,  you  speak  like  a  parson.' 

'  Never  mind  that.  Tell  me  :  can  a  man 
live  without  love  ?  ' 

'  Of  course  he  can.' 

'  But  how  ?     How  ?  ' 

*  You  simply  have  to  spit  at  the  whole  world.' 

'  You  don't  say  that  in  earnest,  George  ?  ' 

'  I  do  indeed.' 

'  Oh,  George  !     Oh,  my  dear  friend  ! ' 

April  10. 

I  saw  the  governor  to-day.     He  is  a  tall  and 

rather  good-looking   old   man,   with   a  closely 

clipped    moustache :     he    wears    glasses.     The 

square  showed  its  wet  pavements  which  were 


40  THE  PALE  HORSE 

only  yesterday  covered  with  snow.  The  ice 
has  melted  away,  the  river  gleamed  bright  in 
the  sun.     The  sparrows  twittered. 

A  carriage  stood  at  the  door  of  the  house. 
I  recognised  it  at  once — ^the  black  horses,  the 
yellow  spokes.  I  crossed  the  square  and  went 
up  to  the  house.  As  I  approached  it,  the  door 
opened  wide,  the  policeman  on  duty  saluted. 
The  governor  came  slowly  down  the  steps. 
I  stood  rooted  to  the  pavement  and  looked  at 
him.  I  simply  could  not  tear  my  eyes  away 
from  him.  He  lifted  his  head  and  looked  at 
me.  I  took  off  my  hat  and  bowed  very  low 
to  him.  He  smiled,  and  acknowledged  my 
bow  by  raising  his  hand  to  his  military  cap  : 
I  hated  him  at  that  moment. 

I  strolled  away  toward  the  park.  My  feet 
stuck  in  the  soft  clay  of  the  paths.  The  daws 
flew  about  among  the  birches. 

April  10. 
I  spend  my  leisure  in  the  Public  Library. 
Most  of  the  readers  in  the  large  silent  room 
are  bearded  students  and  college  girls  with 
short-cropped  hair.  I,  with  my  shaven  face 
and  high  collar,  look  radically  different  from 


THE  PALE  HORSE  41 

them.  I  read  the  ancient  classics  with  great 
interest.  They,  in  the  old  days,  actually  had 
no  conscience ;  they  did  not  seek  for  the  truth. 
They  simply  lived — just  as  the  grass  grows 
and  the  birds  sing.  Sacred  simplicity — ^is 
not  that  the  only  way  to  accept  life,  and  not 
to  revolt  against  it  ?  They  appealed  to  their 
gods  to  protect  them  .  .  .  and  the  gods  pro- 
tected them.  Ulysses  had  Pallas  to  stand  by 
him  in  the  fights  against  the  plunderers  of 
his  property. 

What  god  could  I  pray  to  not  to  abandon 
me  ?  To  whom  could  I  appeal  for  help  and 
protection  ?  I  am  alone.  But  since  there  is 
no  one  to  protect  me,  I  must  protect  myself. 
Since  I  have  no  god,  I  shall  be  mv  own  god. 

What  was  it  Vania  told  me  ?  To  think  that 
everything  is  permissible  leads  to  Smerdiakov. 
.  .  .  But  Smerdiakov  is  no  worse  than  all  the 
rest. 

April  13. 

Erna  said  to  me  : 

'  I  feel  as  if  I  had  lived  only  in  order  to  meet 
you.  I  saw  you  in  my  dreams.  All  my  prayers 
were  for  you.' 


42  THE  PALE  HORSE 

'  You  forget  our  cause,  Erna.' 

'  We  shall  die  together  for  it.  .  .  .  Oh,  my 
love,  when  I  am  with  you,  I  feel' like  a  little 
girl,  like  a  child.  ...  I  know  I  have  nothing 
to  offer  you.  .  .  .  Nothing  but  my  love. 
Take  it.  .  .  .' 

And  she  biurst  into  tears. 

*  Don't  cry,  Erna.' 

'  I  am  crying  with  joy.  .  .  .  But  it 's  over. 
You  see,  I  am  not  crying  any  more.  And 
now  listen :  I  have  something  to  tell  you. 
Heinrich  .  .  .' 

'  What  about  him  ?  ' 

'  Please,  don't  take  it  unkindly.  .  .  .  Hein- 
rich told  me  yesterday  that  he  loved  me.' 

'  Well  ?  ' 

'  Well — I  don't  love  him.  You  know  that. 
It 's  you  alone  I  love.  Are  you  jealous, 
darling  ?     Tell  me,'  she  whispered  into  my  ear. 

'  Jealous  ?     What  an  idea  ! ' 

'  You  must  not.  I  do  not  care  a  bit  for  him. 
But  he  is  so  miserable,  and  I  feel  sorry  for  him. 
Yet  I  don't  think  I  ought  to  have  listened  to 
him.     I  felt  as  if  I  were  betraying  you.  .  .  .' 

'  Betraying  me  ?     But,  Erna  .  .  .' 

'  I  love  you  so  deeply,  but  I  pity  him  never- 


THE  PALE  HORSE  48 

theless.  I  told  him  I  would  be  his  friend. 
You  don't  mind,  do  you  ?  ' 

'  Of  course  not,  Erna.  I  don't  mind,  and  I 
am  not  jealous.' 

She  dropped  her  eyes.     She  was  hurt. 

'  Oh,  I  see.     You  simply  don't  care.' 

'  Look  here,  Erna,'  I  said.  '  Some  women 
are  faithful  wives  and  passionate  lovers  and 
devoted  friends.  Yet  they  are  not  to  be  com- 
pared with  that  superior  type  of  woman — 
the  woman  who  is  a  born  queen.  She  does 
not  give  her  heart  to  any  one.  Her  love  is  a 
splendid  gift  she  bestows  on  the  elect  one.' 

Erna  listened  with  a  terrified  look  in  her  eyes. 
Then  she  said:  'I  see — you  don't  love  me 
at  all.' 

I  answered  her  with  a  kiss.  She  pressed  her 
head  to  my  breast  and  whispered  : 

'  Shall  we  die  together,  love  ?  ' 

'  Maybe  we  shall.' 

She  went  to  sleep  in  my  arms. 

April  15. 
I  went  out  for  a  drive  in  Heinrich's  carriage. 
'  Well,  how  do  you  feel  ? '  I  asked  him. 
He  shook  his  head. 


44  THE  PALE  HORSE 

'  It  is  not  a  pleasant  sort  of  job,'  he  said, 
'to  be  all  day  out  in  the  street  in  the  rain, 
driving  a  cab.' 

'  I  quite  agree,'  I  said  to  him,  '  and  it  is 
the  more  unpleasant  when  a  man  is  in  love.' 

'  What  do  you  know  ?  '  He  quickly  turned 
round  toward  me. 

'  What  do  I  know  ?  I  don't  know  anything, 
and  I  don't  want  to  know.' 

'  You  make  fun  of  everything,  George.' 

'  I  don't.' 

We  passed  through  the  park.  Gleaming 
drops  were  falling  on  us  from  the  wet  branches. 
There  were  delicate  green  patches  of  new  grass 
on  the  lawns. 

'  George  1 ' 

'  Well  ?  ' 

'  George,  is  not  there  some  danger  of  accidents 
in  the  preparation  of  explosives  ?  ' 

'  Of  course  there  is.  Accidents  do  happen 
now  and  then.' 

'  Then  Erna  might  be  blown  up  ?  ' 

'  She  might.' 

'  George  ! ' 

'  What  ? ' 

'  Why  did  you  entrust  the  work  to  her  ?  ' 


THE  PALE  HORSE  45 

'  She  is  an  expert.' 

'  Oh,  is  she  ?  ' 

'  Yes.' 

'  Could  not  some  one  else  do  it  ?  ' 

'  I  don't  think  so.  But  why  are  you  so 
excited  about  it  ?  ' 

'  I  am  not.     I  simply  wanted  to  know.' 

On  our  way  back  he  again  turned  to  me. 

'  George,'  he  said. 

'  Well  ?  ' 

'  Is  it  going  to  be  soon  ?  ' 

'  Yes.' 

'  When  ?  ' 

'  In  about  two  or  three  weeks.' 

'  And  you  are  sure  you  could  not  get  some 
one  to  come  here  and  take  the  place  of 
Erna  ?  ' 

'  I  am  sure.' 

He  shrank  within  his  blue  driver's  coat,  but 
said  nothing. 

'  Good  day,  Heinrich,  and  don't  you  fret. 
Cheer  up  ! ' 

'  I  am  in  the  best  of  spirits.' 

'  Don't  let  your  thoughts  be  concerned  with 
any  one  in  particular.  You  will  be  much 
happier,  I  can  tell  you.' 


46  THE  PALE  HORSE 

'  I  know.     You  need  not  tell  me.     Good-bye.' 
He  drove  away  slowly.     This  time  it  was  I 

who   followed   him  with  my   eyes   for   a  long 

while. 

April  16. 

I  ask  myself :  Do  I  still  love  Elena  ?  Do  I 
not  love  only  a  shadow,  only  my  former  love 
for  her  ?  Who  knows  but  that  Vania  is  right, 
and  I  do  not  love  any  one — cannot  love  ? 
And  why  should  one  love,  after  all  ? 

Heinrich  loves  Erna,  and  will  love  her,  only 
her,  all  his  life.  But  his  love  does  not  make 
him  happy.  On  the  contrary,  it  makes  him 
miserable,  while  my  love  is  all  joy. 

I  am  sitting  again  in  my  room,  in  the  dull 
room  of  the  dull  hotel.  Hundreds  of  people 
live  under  the  same  roof  with  me.  I  am  a 
stranger  to  them.  I  am  a  stranger  within  the 
stone  walls  of  the  town.  I  am  a  stranger 
everywhere.  Erna  has  given  all  her  being  to 
me  without  leaving  a  thought  for  herself,  but 
I  don't  care  for  her,  and  I  repay  her  devotion 
— with  what  ?  With  friendship  ?  Or  perhaps 
with  a  false  pretence  of  friendship  ?  How 
stupid  to  think  of  Elena  and  to  kiss  Erna — 


THE  PALE  HORSE  47 

and  yet  that's  what  I  am  doing.     But  after 
all,  what  does  it  matter  ? 

April  18. 

The  governor  is  back  in  town.  All  our  plans 
are  ruined  again.  Once  more  we  must  begin 
to  watch  his  movements.  This  is  much  more 
difficult  here.  The  house  is  under  the  constant 
guard  of  sentries :  detectives  are  posted  in 
the  square  and  at  the  house  gate.  They  keep 
a  close  watch  on  every  one  passing  in  the  street. 
They  suspect  every  cab-driver. 

Of  course  they  don't  know  where  we  are 
and  who  we  are.  Yet  rumours  are  already 
circulating  in  the  town. 

Last  night,  in  a  tavern,  I  heard  a  conversa- 
tion between  two  men.  .  .  .  One  looked  like  a 
shopman,  and  the  other,  a  boy  of  about  eighteen, 
might  have  been  his  assistant. 

'  There  is  the  will  of  God  in  everything,' 
said  the  elder  man  in  a  positive  voice,  '  and  no 
one  can  escape  his  fate.  Now  that 's  how  they 
say  it  all  happened.  A  young  woman  came 
to  see  him,  and  she  had  a  written  petition 
which  she  wanted  to  present  to  him.  She 
was  admitted  into  his  office,  and  while  he  was 


48  THE  PALE  HORSE 

reading  her  petition  she  suddenly  produced  a 
revolver  out  of  her  pocket  and  fired  at  him. 
She  actually  planted  four  bullets  in  him.' 

The  boy  threw  up  his  hands  in  excitement. 

'  Well,  well !  ...  He  was  killed  on  the 
spot,  I  suppose.' 

'  He  was  not — that 's  the  strange  thing.' 

'  And  then,  what  happened  ?  ' 

'  Why,  they  hanged  her — naturally.  But 
afterward  another  young  woman  requested  an 
interview  with  him — and  she  also  brought  a 
petition  to  give  him.' 

'  Did  they  admit  her  into  his  presence  ?  ' 

'  Certainly  not.  She  insisted,  and  gave  all 
sorts  of  reasons.  But  they  searched  her  in 
the  hall — and  what  do  you  think  ?  They 
actually  found  a  revolver  hidden  in  her  hair. 
God  saved  his  life  that  time.' 

'  What  did  they  do  to  her  ?  ' 

'  They  sent  her  to  the  gallows — what  else 
was  there  to  do  ?  But  now  comes  the  most 
extraordinary  part  of  it.'  He  emphasised  with 
a  broad  gesture  his  amazement  at  the  work- 
ings of  fate.  '  A  short  time  afterward  he  was 
taking  a  walk  in  his  garden,  which,  as  always, 
was  carefully  guarded  by  the  police,  when  a 


THE  PALE  HORSE  49 

sudden  shot  was  fired  at  him  from  ambush. 
The  bullet  went  right  through  his  heart.  He 
had  hardly  time  to  scream.' 

'  Oh,  what  devils  they  are.  .  .  .  Just  imagine  I ' 

'  Ye — es.  The  murderer  was  hanged — of  course 
— but  the  other  died,  all  the  same.  No  one 
can  escape  his  fate.  .  .  .' 

I  met  Elena  yesterday  ...  at  last !  I  had 
not  been  thinking  of  her  for  some  time.  I  had 
almost  forgotten  that  she  lived  in  the  same 
town.  I  was  walking  in  the  street  when  I 
suddenly  heard  some  one  call  me.  I  looked 
around — and  I  saw  Elena.  I  saw  her  large 
grey  eyes,  her  black  hair.  As  we  walked  side 
by  side,  she  said  to  me  with  a  smile  : 

'  You  have  forgotten  me.' 

A  shaft  of  bright  light  shone  into  our  faces. 
The  street  was  ablaze  with  light  of  the  sunset, 
the  pavement  shone  like  gold.  I  blushed  like 
a  poppy  flower  and  said  to  her  : 

'  No,  I  have  not.' 

She  took  my  arm  and  asked  in  a  low  voice  : 

'  Are  you  here  for  long  ?  '  , 

'  I  can't  tell.' 

'  What  are  you  doing  here  ?  ' 

'  I  don't  know.' 

D 


50  THE  PALE  HORSE 

'  Oh,  don't  you  ?  ' 

'No; 

She  blushed  deeply  and  said  : 

'  But  I  know.     I  will  tell  you.' 

'  Do,  please.' 

'  You  .  .  } 

'  Well,  perhaps.' 

The  evening  light  was  now  gone.  The  air 
became  chilly  and  grey.  I  had  so  much  to 
tell  her,  but  no  words  came  to  me.     I  only  said  : 

'  Why  do  you  live  here  ?  ' 

'  This  is  where  my  husband  is  stationed.' 

'  Your  husband  ?  ' 

I  suddenly  remembered  all  about  that 
husband  of  hers.  Of  course,  she  had  a  husband. 
Haven't  I  met  him  ? 

'  Good-bye,'  I  said,  and  stretched  out  my 
hand  awkwardly. 

'  Must  you  go  ?  '  she  asked. 

'  I  must.' 

'  Don't  go  yet.' 

I  looked  into  her  eyes.  There  was  a  spark 
of  love  in  them.  But  I  remembered  her 
husband. 

'  Au  revoir,'  I  said. 

Everything    seemed    dark   and    deserted.     I 


THE  PALE  HORSE  51 

went  to  the  Tivoli.  I  listened  to  the  noisy 
orchestra,  and  to  the  shameless  laughing  of 
the  women.  ...  I  felt  very  lonely. 

April  25. 

The  governor  left  for  X.  I  followed  him 
there.  I  felt  happy  in  seeing  the  broad  river, 
the  glittering  domes.  The  spring  is  very  lovely 
in  these  parts  :  it  is  as  virginal  and  as  bright 
as  a  child  of  sixteen. 

The  governor  went  by  train  to  a  near-by 
suburb.  I  also  went  there  in  a  first-class  car 
by  the  same  train.  A  smartly  dressed  lady 
entered  my  compartment.  She  dropped  her 
handkerchief.     I  picked  it  up. 

'  You  are  not  a  Russian,  are  you  ?  '  she 
asked  in  French,  and  looked  intently  at  me. 

'  I  am  EngHsh.' 

'  English  ?  May  I  ask  your  name  ?  I  think 
we  have  met  before.' 

After  a  moment's  hesitation  I  took  out  my 
visiting  card,  which  bore  the  inscription  : 
'  George  O'Brien,  Engineer,  London.' 

'  So  you  are  an  engineer.  I  am  very  pleased 
to  have  met  you.  I  hope  you  will  call  on  me. 
I  will  look  forward  to  seeing  you.' 


52  THE  PALE  HORSE 

At  the  station,  in  the  refreshment-room,  I 
saw  her  having  tea  with  a  Jew.  He  looked 
very  much  hke  a  spy.  I  came  up  to  her  and 
said  : 

'  I  am  glad  to  see  you  again.' 

She  laughed. 

I  walked  up  and  down  the  platform  with 
her. 

Once  more  in  the  train  the  guard  came  to 
collect  the  tickets.  She  handed  him  a  grey 
envelope,  and  I  could  read  plainly  at  the  bottom 
of  it :   '  Secret  Police  Department.' 

'  You  have  a  season  ticket,  I  see,'  I  said  to 
her. 

She  blushed  violently. 

'  Oh  no,'  she  answered.  .  .  .  '  Not  exactly, 
I  mean.  I  had  it  given  to  me  by  a  friend.  .  .  . 
How  happy  I  am  to  have  met  you.  I  do  like 
the  Enghsh.' 

A  whistle — ^the  train  stopped.  We  arrived. 
I  took  my  leave  of  her,  but  followed  her  stealthily 
at  a  distance. 

I  saw  her  enter  the  office  of  the  gendarmerie. 

'  Oh,  so  that 's  how  things  stand,'  I  thought. 

Once  in  the  hotel  again,  I  decided  that  I 
must  act.     Either  I   am  watched — and  then, 


THE  PALE  HORSE  58 

of  course,  I  am  lost.  Or  else  my  meeting  with 
the  woman  in  the  train  was  simply  an  accident, 
a  foolish  coincidence.  In  any  case,  I  thought, 
I  must  know  the  truth,  and  so  I  decided  to 
challenge  fate.  I  put  on  my  top -hat,  took  a 
smart  carriage  and  drove  to  her  address.  I 
pulled  at  the  entrance  bell. 

'  Is  madam  at  home  ?  ' 

'  Yes,  please,  come  in.' 

The  room  into  which  I  was  admitted  looked 
like  a  pretty  box  of  sweets.  There  was  a  large 
bouquet  of  yellow  roses  on  a  table  in  the  corner 
— obviously  the  gift  of  an  admirer.  Many 
portraits  of  the  lady  of  the  house  in  different 
poses  were  standing  upon  the  tables  and  hang- 
ing upon  the  walls. 

'  Oh,  that 's  you.  .  .  .  How  kind  to  have 
called.  Be  seated,  please.'  We  dropped  again 
into  French.  I  lit  a  cigar,  and  put  my  hat 
on  my  knees. 

'  Do  you  like  the  Russian  women  ?  *  she 
asked. 

'  I  think  them  the  most  charming  in  the 
world.' 

Then  came  a  knock  at  the  door. 

'  Come  in.' 


54  THE  PALE  HORSE 

Two  men  entered :  they  had  very  dark 
hair  and  thick  moustaches.  They  looked  Hke 
cardsharpers  or  men  who  Hved  on  women. 

We  shook  hands. 

The  woman  went  with  them  to  the  window. 

'  Who  is  he  ?  '  I  heard  one  of  them  ask  in 
a  whisper. 

'  Oh,  an  engineer — an  EngHshman.  Very 
rich.  You  may  speak  freely — don't  mind  him. 
He  doesn't  know  a  word  of  Russian.' 

I  rose  from  my  seat. 

'  I  am  sorry,  I  must  go.     Good  day,  madam.' 

I  again  shook  hands  with  all  of  them.  Once 
in  the  street,  I  felt  very  amused.  Thank  God, 
they  think  me  an  Englishman. 

April  26. 
The  governor  is  going  back  to  N.  I  have 
still  an  hour  to  myself  before  the  train  starts. 
I  stroll  aimlessly  about  the  town.  It  is  getting 
dark.  There  is  a  glowing  red  sunset  across 
the  river,  where  a  well-defined  spire  can  be 
seen  piercing  the  sky.  There  is  a  three- 
coloured  sentry-box  at  the  oak  posts  of  the 
prison  gate — the  dark  mouth  of  the  corridor 
is  behind  the  white  walls.     The  echo  of  the 


THE  PALE  HORSE  55 

footsteps  resounds  on  the  stone  slabs.  .  .  . 
Then  the  darkness,  the  barred  windows  .  .  . 
the  trembUng  melody  of  the  tower-clock  chimes. 
.  .  .  There  is  vast  melancholy  upon  the  whole 
earth. 

I  can  see  the  low  bastions,  the  grey  walls. 
We  are  too  weak  .  .  .  too  weak  !  Yet  the 
day  of  the  great  wrath  will  come.  .  .  .  Who 
will  be  able  to  withstand  it  ? 

April  28. 

It  is  still  cold  in  the  park.  The  linden  trees 
are  yet  bare,  but  the  shrubs  are  green  with 
foliage.  The  birds  are  singing  in  the  young 
bushes. 

Elena  stooped  to  pick  flowers.  She  turned 
to  me  and  laughed:  'Isn't  it  lovely  out  here?* 
she  said.     '  I  feel  so  happy  and  gay.     And  you  ?  ' 

I  also  felt  happy  and  gay.  I  looked  into 
her  eyes  and  wanted  to  tell  her  that  she  was 
the  joy  and  the  bright  light  of  the  day.  ...  I 
joined  unwittingly  in  her  laughter. 

'  I  have  not  seen  you  for  so  long,'  she  said. 
'  Where  have  you  been  all  this  time  ?  Where 
have  you  lived  ?  What  have  you  seen,  what 
have  you  learned  ?    What  did  you  think  of  me  ?  ' 


56  THE  PALE  HORSE 

Without  waiting  for  an  answer  she  added 
with  a  deep  blush  : 

'  I  felt  very  anxious  for  you.' 

Surely  there  never  was  such  a  morning.  The 
lilies-of-the-valley  were  in  full  bloom,  there  was 
a  fragrance  of  spring  in  the  air.  Fluffy  clouds 
melted  away  in  the  sky  as  they  chased  one 
another.  My  heart  was  full  of  joy  :  she  had 
shown  a  deep  concern  for  me. 

'  Do  you  know,  I  seem  to  live  without  notic- 
ing life,'  said  Elena.  '  I  look  at  you  now,  and 
I  have  a  feeling  as  if  you  were  not  actually 
yourself,  but  a  stranger  .  .  .  and  yet  some  one 
who  is  dear  to  me.  .  .  .  After  all,  you  are  a 
stranger.  Do  I  know  you  ?  Do  you  know  me  ? 
But  we  need  not  know  each  other  ?  We  are 
happy  without  it,  aren't  we  ?  ' 

After  a  pause  she  added  smilingly  : 

'  Well,  do  tell  me  what  you  have  been  doing ; 
what  you  are  living  for.' 

'  You  know  what  I  am  living  for.' 

She  dropped  her  eyes. 

'  Oh,  then  it  is  true  ?  ' 

Her  face  became  clouded.  She  took  my 
hand  and  was  silent  for  a  while. 

'  Look  here,'  she  began  at  last.     '  Of  course, 


THE  PALE  HORSE  57 

I  don't  understand  anything  about  it.  .  .  . 
But  tell  me,  why  do  you  want  it  ?  Why  ? 
Isn't  it  just  lovely  here  ?  The  spring  has  come. 
The  birds  are  singing.  But  what  are  you 
thinking  of  ?  What  do  you  live  for  ?  Why, 
dearest  ?  ' 

I  had  so  much  to  say  to  her.  .  .  .  But  some- 
how I  could  not  find  words.  I  knew  that  they 
would  be  mere  words  to  her,  that  she  would 
be  unable  to  grasp  their  meaning. 

And  she  repeated  insistingly  : 

'  Why,  dearest  ?  ' 

There  was  dew  on  the  leaves.  I  touched  a 
branch  with  my  shoulder — and  down  came  a 
shower  of  glistening  drops.     I  was  silent. 

'  Why  not  live  simply  for  life's  sake  ?  Or, 
perhaps  I  misunderstood  you  ?  Or  else,  you 
are  right  and  it  must  be  done  ?  .  .  .  No,  no,' 
she  answered  her  own  question,  '  I  am  sure 
you  are  wrong.  .  .  .' 

I  asked  timidly,  like  a  boy  : 

'  What  is  right,  Elena  ?  ' 

*  I  don't  know ;  how  could  I  know  ?  Why 
do  you  ask  mel  I  know  nothing  .  .  .  and  I 
don't  want  to  know.  .  .  .  But  we  are  happy 
to-day.  .  .  ,' 


58  THE  PALE  HORSE 

There  she  was  again  laughing  and  picking 
flowers,  and  I  thought  how  lonely  I  would 
feel  presently  after  her  departure,  and  that 
childlike  laugh  of  hers  would  sound  not  for  me 
but  for  another. 

The  blood  rushed  to  my  face,  and  I  said  in 
a  barely  audible  voice  : 

'  Elena ! ' 

'  What,  dearest  ?  ' 

'  You  have  asked  me  what  I  was  doing  ? 
...  I  was  thinking  of  you.' 

'  Of  me  ?  ' 

'  Yes.  .  .  .  Don't  you  see  ...  I  love  you.' 

She  dropped  her  eyes. 

'  Don't  say  that  to  me.' 

'  Why  not  ?  ' 

'  O  God.  .  .  .  Please,  don't.     Good-bye.' 

She  walked  away  quickly.  And  for  some  time 
her  black  dress  glimmered  among  the  white 
birches. 

April  29. 
I  wrote  Elena  a  letter  : 

'  I  feel  as  if  I  had  not  seen  you  for  years.     I 

am  conscious  every  hour,   every  minute  that 

you  are  not  with  me.     I  see  your  dear  eyes 

before  me  day  and  night,  everywhere,  always. 


THE  PALE  HORSE  59 

'  I  believe  in  love,  in  my  right  to  love.  At 
the  very  bottom  of  my  heart  I  feel  so  tran- 
quilly confident — ^it  is  a  foreboding  of  what 
must  be.     And  it  shall  be. 

'  I  love  you  and  I  am  happy.  Love  and  be 
happy  as  I  am,' 

I  received  a  brief  answer  : 

'  To-morrow  in  the  park,  at  six.' 

April  80. 

Elena  said  to  me  : 

'  I  am  so  happy  because  you  are  with  me 
now.  .  .  .  But  don't  speak  to  me  of  love.' 

I  wa§  silent. 

'  No,  you  must  promise  not  to  speak  about 
your  love.  .  .  .  And  don't  be  sad ;  don't  think 
about  anything.' 

'  I  was  thinking  of  you.' 

'  Of  me  ?    Don't.  .  .  .' 

'  Why  ?  ' 

And  before  she  could  say  a  word  I  went  on  : 

'  Is  it  because  you  are  married  ?  Because 
of  your  husband  ?  The  duty  of  a  faithful 
wife  ?  Oh,  of  course.  .  .  .  Forgive  me.  ...  I 
had  dared  to  speak  of  my  love,  and  I  had  dared 
to  ask  for  yours  !     Virtuous  wives  prize  only 


60  THE  PALE  HORSE 

their   peaceful   home,    the   clean   chambers    of 
their  heart.  .  .  .  Forgive  me.' 

'  Aren't  you  ashamed  of  yourself  ?  ' 

'  I  am  not.  Oh,  I  know  :  the  tragedy  of 
love  and  duty ;  the  tragedy  of  love  and  the 
wedding  gown,  of  legal  marriage  and  of  legal 
kisses  exchanged  by  husband  and  wife.  .  .  .  No, 
Elena  ;   it 's  not  I  who  am  ashamed — ^but  you.' 

'  Be  silent !  ' 

We  walked  for  some  moments  along  the 
narrow  path  in  the  park  without  saying  a 
word.     Her  face  was  still  angry. 

'  I  wonder,'  she  said,  turning  round  to  me, 
'  whether  you  recognise  a  single  law  ?  ' 

'  Not  for  me,  but  for  you.' 

'  No.  .  .  .  But  surely  .  .  .  What  is  your 
aim  in  life  ?     Why  do  you  live  like  this  ?  ' 

'  I  don't  know.' 

'  You  don't  know  ?  ' 

'No.' 

'  Then  I  can  tell  you  that 's  your  law.  You 
said  to  yourself  :   "  It  is  necessary,"  ' 

'  No.     I  said  to  myself :   "I  desire  it."  ' 

'  So  you  desire  it  ?  ' 

She  looked  straight  into  my  eyes  in  astonish- 
ment. 


THE  PALE  HORSE  61 

'  You  desire  it  ?  ' 

'  Well,  yes.' 

Suddenly  she  put  her  hands  on  my  shoulders. 

'  George,  dearest ! ' 

With  a  swift  graceful  movement  she  kissed 
my  lips.  It  was  a  long,  burning  kiss.  When 
I  opened  my  eyes  she  was  gone.  Where  was 
she  ?     Or  was  it  not  all  a  dream  ? 

May  1. 

It  is  the  first  of  May — a  festive  day.  I 
love  this  day — ^it  has  so  much  light  and  joy. 
To-day  of  all  days.  .  .  .  But  I  have  not  seen 
the  governor  to-day. 

He  has  been  on  his  guard  of  late.  He  remains 
at  home  and  we  shadow  him  in  vain.  We 
see  only  detectives  and  soldiers.  And  they 
see  us.  It  seems  better  to  stop  our  surveil- 
lance for  the  present.  I  have  found  out  that 
he  is  to  visit  the  theatre  on  the  thirteenth. 
We  will  guard  all  the  gates.  Vania  will  take 
his  post  at  one  gate,  Fedor  at  the  other,  Hein- 
rich  at  the  third.  And  we  will  patiently 
wait.  .  .  . 

I  am  anticipating  the  joy  of  our  triumph. 
I  can  see  the  dark  vaults  of  the  church,  the 


62  THE  PALE  HORSE 

lighted  candles.  ...  I  can  hear  the  chant  of 
the  prayers,  the  stifling  smell  of  the  incense.  .  .  . 

May  2. 

I  am  in  a  kind  of  fever  these  days.  My  whole 
will  is  concentrated  on  one  desire.  I  look  out 
very  carefully  every  day  whether  I  am  not 
being  watched.  I  am  so  afraid  we  shall  not 
reap  what  we  have  sown.  But  I  will  not 
surrender  alive.  I  am  staying  now  in  the 
'  Edinburgh  Hotel.'  I  had  my  passport  regis- 
tered and  brought  back  to  my  room  last  night. 
The  man  who  brought  it  remained  standing 
at  the  door,  and  said  after  some  hesitation  : 

'  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,  but  the  police  in- 
spector wants  to  know  what  your  religion  is  ?  ' 

A  very  strange  question.  It  is  stated  in 
my  passport  that  I  am  a  Protestant.  I  asked 
without  turning  my  head  : 

'  What  ?  ' 

'  Your  religion,  sir — what  is  it  ?  ' 

I  took  my  passport  from  the  table,  and 
began  to  read  aloud  the  title  of  Lord  Lans- 
downe  : 

We,  Henry  Charles  Keith  Petty  Fitz-Maurice, 
Marquess  of  Lansdowne,  Earl  Wycombe,   etc. 


THE  PALE  HORSE  68 

As  I  don't  know  English,  I  pronounced  the 
syllables  slowly  one  after  another. 

The  man  listened  with  much  attention. 

'  Do  you  understand  ?  ' 

'  Yes,  sir.' 

I  said  with  a  strong  foreign  accent : 

'  Go,  tell  the  police  inspector  :  I  'm  going 
to  telegraph  immediately  to  the  ambassador. 
Do  you  understand  ?  ' 

'  Yes,  sir.' 

I  stood  with  my  back  to  him,  and  I  said  in 
a  loud  voice,  looking  out  of  the  window  : 

'  You  may  go  now.' 

He  bowed  and  went  out.  I  was  alone.  Is 
it  possible  that  I  am  being  watched  ? 

May  6. 

We  met  out  of  the  town,  close  to  the  rail- 
way Une — I,  Vania,  Heinrich  and  Fedor.  They 
jvere  in  high  boots  and  in  caps — ^like  peasants. 

I  said  to  them  : 

'  The  governor  is  going  to  the  theatre  on 
the  thirteenth.  We  must  settle  our  posts 
now.     Who  is  going  to  be  first  ?  ' 

Heinrich  became  very  agitated. 

'  I  want  to  be  the  first,'  he  said. 


64  THE  PALE  HORSE 

Vania  has  fair  hair,  grey  eyes,  and  a  pale 
forehead.     I  looked  questioningly  at  him. 

'  I  insist  on  being  given  the  first  place,' 
repeated  Heinrich. 

Vania  smiled  affectionately. 

'  No,  Heinrich,'  he  said,  '  I  have  been  wait- 
ing for  the  chance  ever  so  long.  It  is  my 
turn.  I  must  be  first.  I  hope  you  won't 
mind.'  Fedor  went  on  smoking  his  cigarette 
indifferently. 

'  And  you,  Fedor,  what  have  you  to  say  ?  ' 
I  asked  him. 

'  Well,  you  know,  I  am  always  ready.' 

Then  there  was  silence. 

The  narrow  rails  of  the  line  stretched  into 
the  distance,  where  the  telegraph  poles  were 
gradually  lost  to  view.  It  was  quiet.  Only 
the  buzz  of  the  telegraph  wires  was  audible. 

'  Look  here,'  said  Vania.  '  I  was  just  think- 
ing that  I  might  miss  him  very  easily.  In 
throwing  a  bomb  like  that  one  can't  always 
be  sure  to  hit.  I  might,  for  example,  only 
strike  the  back  wheel  of  the  carriage.' 

Heinrich  looked  up,  very  agitated. 

'  That 's  true.  .  .  .  What  shall  we  do  ?  ' 

Fedor  listened  very  attentively. 


THE  PALE  HORSE  65 

'  I  know,'  said  Vania ;  '  the  best  plan  is  to 
throw  oneself  right  in  front  of  the  horses.' 

'  Why  ?  ' 

'  That  would  mean  certain  death  for  him.' 

'  And  for  you  too.' 

'  Yes,  and  for  me.' 

Fedor  shrugged  his  shoulders  with  contempt. 

'  There  is  no  need  whatever  for  that,'  he 
said.  '  Run  up  simply  to  the  window  and 
throw  the  bomb  at  the  glass  pane.  That 's 
all.' 

I  looked  at  them.  Fedor  was  lying  on  his 
back  on  the  grass  and  the  sun  scorched  his 
dark  cheeks.  He  was  blinking ;  the  spring 
made  him  feel  happy.  Vania,  pale,  looked 
pensively  into  the  distance.  Heinrich  walked 
up  and  down  and  smoked  in  nervous  puffs. 
Above  us  was  the  blue  sky. 

'  I  will  tell  you  when  to  sell  your  horses  and 
carriages.  Fedor  will  dress  up  like  an  officer ; 
you,  Vania,  will  disguise  yourself  as  a  hall- 
porter;  while  you,  Heinrich,  will  remain  a 
peasant  in  a  peasant's  coat.' 

Fedor  turned  to  me  and  laughed  with  satis- 
faction. 

'  Am  I  to  be  promoted  to  an  oflScer's  rank  ?  ' 

E 


66  THE  PALE  HORSE 

he  said.     '  That 's  fine.  .  .  .  Nice  to  be  a  gentle- 
man again.' 

I  shook  hands  with  them  all  and  left  them. 
Heinrich  overtook  me  on  my  way  home. 

'  George,'  he  said. 

'Well?' 

'  George.  .  .  .  Just  think.  ...  Is  Vania  going 
to  do  it  ?  ' 

'  Of  course  he  is.' 

'  That  means,  he  is  lost.' 

He  looked  down  under  his  feet :    our  foot- 
prints showed  clearly  on  the  young  grass. 

'  I  can't  stand  that,'  he  said  in  a  hoarse  voice. 

'  What  is  it  you  can't  stand  ?  ' 

'  Well,  his  going  to  his  death.  .  .  .' 

He  stopped  and  went  on  talking  very  fast : 

'  Let  me  be  the  first.  It  is  much  better  that 
I  should  perish — not  he.     He  .  .  .' 

'  Yes,  certainly.' 

'  No,  George,  listen.  .  .  .  Can  you  imagine 
Vania  gone  ?  We  calmly  decide  a  thing, 
and  it  means  the  certain  death  of  Vania.  .  .  . 
The  certainty  of  it  is  so  ghastly.  No,  for 
God's  sake,  no !  .  .  .' 

He  plucked  his  beard.  His  hands  were 
trembling. 


THE  PALE  HORSE  67 

'  Look  here,  Heinrich,'  I  said  to  him.  '  It 
must  be  one  or  the  other.  Either  you  stick 
to  it,  and  in  that  case  stop  your  tedious  dis- 
cussions, or  else  go  on  discussing ;  go  back — 
to  your  imiversity.' 

He  was  silent.     I  took  him  under  the  arm. 

'  Remember,'  I  said,  '  General  Togo  said 
to  his  Japanese  :  "I  only  regret  that  I  have 
no  sons  who  might  share  your  lot."  Well, 
we  also  should  regret  but  one  thing — that  we 
cannot  share  Vania's  lot.  And  there  is  nothing 
to  shed  tears  about.' 

We  were  now  close  to  the  town.  Window- 
panes  were  glittering  in  the  sun  at  a  distance. 
Heinrich  raised  his  eyes. 

'  You  are  right,  George,'  he  said. 

I  laughed. 

'  You  just  wait,'  I  said.     '  Suum  cuique.' 

May  7. 

Erna  came  into  my  room,  sat  down  in  a 
comer  and  began  to  smoke.  I  don't  like  to 
see  women  smoking,  and  am  always  on  the 
point  of  telling  her. 

*  Is  it  going  to  be  soon,  Georgie  dear  ?  *  she 
asked. 


68  THE  PALE  HORSE 

'  Very  soon.' 

'  When  ? ' 

'  On  the  thirteenth.' 

She  wrapped  herself  up  in  her  warm  shawl. 
Only  her  blue  eyes  were  visible. 

'  Who  will  throw  the  first  bomb  ?  ' 

'  Vania; 

'  Vania  ?  ' 

'  Yes,  Vania.' 

Her  large  hands,  her  affectionate  voice,  her  red 
cheeks  irritated  me.     I  turned  away  from  her. 

She  went  on  smoking  for  some  time.  After- 
ward she  rose  and  walked  about  the  room  in 
silence.  I  looked  at  her  hair.  It  was  flaxen 
and  curled  at  the  temples  and  on  her  forehead. 
How  could  I  have  kissed  her  ? 

She  stopped  and  looked  timidly  into  my 
eyes. 

'  Do  you  believe  in  the  success  of  the  venture  ? ' 

'  Of  course.' 

She  sighed. 

'  May  God  help  us.' 

'  Don't  you  believe  in  it,  Erna  ?  ' 

'  Oh  yes,  I  do.' 

'  If  you  don't,  you  had  better  part  with  us,' 
I  said. 


THE  PALE  HORSE  69 

'  But,  Georgie  darling,  why  do  you  speak 
like  that  ?     I  do  believe/ 

And  I  repeated  : 

*  Yes,  leave  us.' 

'  What  is  the  matter  with  you,  George  ?  ' 

'  Oh,  nothing  !     Do  leave  me  in  peace.' 

She  returned  to  her  corner  and  wrapped 
herself  up  in  her  shawl.  I  hate  those  shawls. 
I  said  nothing. 

The  clock  was  ticking  on  the  mantelpiece.  I 
felt  nervous.     I  waited  for  reproaches  and  tears. 

'  Georgie  ! ' 

'  What  is  it,  Erna  ?  ' 

'  Nothing.' 

'  Well,  good-night.     I  feel  tired.' 

At  the  door  she  whispered  sadly  : 

'  Good-bye,  love.' 

She  let  her  shoulders  droop.  Her  lips 
quivered. 

I  pitied  her. 

May  8. 

People  say  that  where  there  is  no  law  there 
is  no  crime.  If  that  is  true,  where  is  the  wrong 
in  my  kissing  Elena  ?  And  why  am  I  to 
blame  in  not  caring  any  longer  for  Erna  ?  I 
ask  myself  this  and  I  can  find  no  answer. 


70  THE  PALE  HORSE 

If  I  acknowledged  a  law  I  probably  would 
not  kill ;  I  would  not  have  made  love  to  Erna, 
and  would  not  be  seeking  the  love  of  Elena. 
But  what  is  my  law  ? 

They  also  say  :  love  your  fellow-man.  But 
suppose  there  is  no  love  in  my  heart  ?  They 
say  :  respect  him.  But  suppose  there  is  ho 
respect  for  others  in  me  ?  I  am  on  the  border 
of  life  and  death.  Words  about  sin  mean 
nothing  to  me.  I  may  say  about  myself :  '  I 
looked  up  and  I  saw  the  pale  horse  and  the 
rider  whose  name  is  death.'  Wherever  that 
horse  stamps  its  feet  there  the  grass  withers  : 
and  where  the  grass  withers  there  is  no  life 
and  consequently  no  law.  For  Death  recog- 
nises no  law. 

May  9. 

Fedor  sold  his  horse  and  carriage  in  the 
horse  market.  He  is  an  officer  now,  a  cornet 
in  the  dragoons.  His  spurs  clash,  his  sword 
clangs  on  the  pavement.  He  looks  taller  in 
his  uniform  and  walks  with  more  self-assurance. 

I  sat  with  him  at  a  table  in  an  open-air  caf6. 
The  violins  were  singing  in  the  orchestra. 
Military   uniforms   passed   quickly   before   our 


THE  PALE  HORSE  71 

eyes,  as  well  as  the  women's  white  dresses. 
The  soldiers  saluted  Fedor. 

He  turned  to  me. 

'  How  much  do  you  suppose,'  he  said,  '  that 
dress  cost  ?  ' 

He  pointed  to  a  smartly  dressed  woman  at 
the  next  table. 

I  shrugged  my  shoulders. 

'  I  don't  know.  I  should  think  about  two 
hundred  roubles.' 

'  Two  hundred,  you  say  ?  ' 

'  Yes,  I  should  think  so.' 

He  gave  no  answer. 

'  Look  here,'  he  said  after  a  while. 

'  Well  ?  ' 

'  When  I  worked  I  had  a  rouble  a  day.' 

'  Well  ?  ' 

'  Well,  nothing.' 

The  electric  lights  were  turned  on.  A  white 
globe  shone  quite  low  over  our  heads.  Blue 
shadows  streaked  the  white  cloth. 

'  I  say  .  .  .' 

'  What,  Fedor  ?  ' 

'  Well,  why  not  do  it  ...  to  these  ?  ' 

'  Do  what  ?  ' 

'  You  know  yourself.' 


72  THE  PALE  HORSE 

'  But  why  ?  ' 

'  Let  them  know  .  .  .' 

'  What  ?  ' 

'  That  the  working  people  die  Uke  flies.' 

'  But,  Fedor.  .  .  .  We  are  not  anarchists.' 

He  asked:   'What?' 

'  That  is  anarchism,  Fedor.' 

'  Anarchism  ?  .  .  .  What  a  word  !  .  .  .  All 
I  know  is  that  the  costume  over  there  cost 
two  hundred  roubles,  and  that  there  are  children 
begging  pennies  in  the  street.  .  .  .  What  do 
you  call  that  ?  ' 

It  was  strange  to  look  at  his  silver  shoulder- 
straps,  his  white  uniform,  the  white  brim  of 
his  cap,  and  to  listen  to  such  talk. 

'  What  makes  you  so  bitter,  Fedor  ? '  I 
asked. 

'  There  is  no  justice  in  life,'  he  answered. 
'  We  toil  all  day  in  the  factories,  our  mothers 
weep,  our  sisters  walk  the  streets.  .  .  .  And 
these  creatures.  .  .  .  Two  hundred  roubles  ! 
.  .  .  Oh,  they  ought  to  be  wiped  out,  all  of 
them.  .  .  .  No  doubt  about  that.' 

The  bushes  were  becoming  lost  in  the  dark- 
ness, the  wood  began  to  look  depressingly  dark. 
Fedor  sat  leaning  on  the  table  with  his  elbows 


THE  PALE  HORSE  78 

and  did  not  speak.     There  was  a  look  of  hate 
in  his  eyes. 

'  They  all  ought  to  be  wiped  out — no  doubt 
about  that ! ' 

May  10. 

Two  days  more.  ...  In  two  days  .  .  . 

Elena's  image  appeared  before  me  dimly.  I 
shut  my  eyes  and  I  tried  to  resurrect  it.  I 
knew  that  she  had  black  eyebrows  and  slender 
hands,  but  I  really  did  not  see  her.  I  saw  only 
a  dead  mask.  And  yet  a  secret  hope  was 
alive  in  my  soul :  she  will  be  mine. 

Everything  is  the  same  to  me  now.  There 
was  a  thunderstorm  yesterday.  I  heard  the 
season's  first  thunder.  To-day  the  grass  looks 
fresh  as  from  a  bath,  the  lilacs  are  in  bloom. 
There  is  the  cry  of  the  cuckoo  at  sunset.  But 
I  hardly  notice  the  spring,  I  have  almost 
forgotten  about  Elena.  Well,  let  her  love  her 
husband,  let  her  not  be  mine.  I  am  alone,  I 
will  remain  alone.  That 's  what  I  am  saying 
to  myself  now.  But  I  know  :  a  few  days  will 
pass,  and  my  thoughts  will  be  with  her  again. 
My  life  will  move  in  an  iron  circle  as  before. 
That  is,  if  these  days  will  pass  and  .  .  . 


74  THE  PALE  HORSE 

I  walked  along  the  boulevard  to-day.  There 
was  still  the  smell  of  rain  in  the  air,  but  the 
birds  were  already  twittering.  I  suddenly 
noticed  a  man  who  walked  at  my  right  on  the 
wet  path.  He  was  a  Jew  in  a  bowler  hat,  in 
a  long  yellow  overcoat.  He  stopped  at  the 
corner  and  followed  me  with  his  eyes  for  a 
long  while. 

I  asked  myself  again  :   am  I  being  watched  ? 

May  11. 

Vania  is  still  a  cab-driver.  He  came  to  meet 
me  in  his  holiday  dress.  We  sat  down  on  a 
bench  in  the  square,  opposite  the  cathedral. 

'  Well,  Georgie,  the  end  has  come.' 

'  Yes,  Vania,  it  has  come.' 

'  I  am  so  happy.  My  whole  life  is  like  a 
dream  to  me  now.  I  feel  as  if  I  were  born  just 
in  order  to  die,  and  .  .  .' 

The  spires  of  the  white  temple  seemed  to 
pierce  the  sky.  Down  below  the  river  was 
glittering  in  the  sun,  Vania  was  quite  com- 
posed. 

'  It  is  hard  to  believe  in  a  miracle,'  he  said. 
'  But  once  you  believe,  all  problems  cease  to 
exist.      No  need  of  violence,  no  need  of  the 


THE  PALE  HORSE  75 

sword.  No  need  of  blood.  No  need  of  the 
commandment :  "  Thou  shalt  not  kill."  But 
that 's  the  trouble — ^we  have  no  faith.  A 
miracle,  we  say,  is  just  a  story  for  children. 
Now  you  Hsten  and  tell  me  whether  it 's  just  a 
story  or  something  more.' 

'  Perhaps  it  is  not  at  all  a  story  but  the  truth.' 

He  took  out  of  his  pocket  a  Bible  bound  in 
black  leather  with  a  gilded  cross  on  the  cover* 

'  Jesus  said.  Take  ye  away  the  stone,  Martha, 
the  sister  of  him  that  was  dead,  saith  unto 
him.  Lord,  by  this  time  he  stinketh  ;  for  he 
hath  been  dead  four  days. 

'  Jesus  saith  unto  her,  Said  I  not  unto  thee, 
that,  if  thou  wouldst  believe,  thou  shouldst 
see  the  glory  of  God  ? 

'  Then  they  took  away  the  stone  from  the 
place  where  the  dead  was  laid.  And  Jesus 
lifted  up  his  eyes,  and  said.  Father,  I  thank 
thee  that  thou  hast  heard  me. 

'  And  I  knew  that  thou  hearest  me  always ; 
but  because  of  the  people  which  stand  by  I 
said  it,  that  they  may  believe  that  thou  hast 
sent  me. 

'  And  when  he  thus  had  spoken,  he  cried 
with  a  loud  voice,  Lazarus,  come  forth. 


76  THE  PALE  HORSE 

'  And  he  that  was  dead  came  forth,  bound 
hand  and  foot  with  grave-clothes;  and  his 
face  was  bound  about  with  a  napkin.  Jesus 
saith  unto  them,  Loose  him  and  let  him 
go.  .  .  . 

Vania  shut  the  Bible.  I  did  not  speak.  He 
repeated,  absorbed  in  his  thoughts  : 

'  Lord,  by  this  time  he  stinketh  :  for  he  has 
been  dead  four  days.'  The  swallows  were 
circling  in  the  blue  air.  In  the  monastery 
across  the  river  the  bells  were  ringing  for 
vespers.     Vania  said  in  a  whisper  : 

'  You  hear,  Georgie  :   four  days.  .  .  .' 

'  Well  ?  ' 

'  It  is  a  great  miracle.' 

'  And  is  the  saint  Seraphim  of  Sarov  ^  also 
a  nliracle  ?  ' 

Vania  did  not  hear  me. 

'  George,'  he  said. 

'  Yes,  Vania.' 

'  Listen  '  : 

'  But  =.  Mary"  stood  without  at  the  sepulchre 
weeping  :  and,  as  she  wept,  she  stooped  down 
and  looked  into  the  sepulchre. 

'  And    seeth    two    angels    in    white    sitting, 
^  A  Russian  saint,  canonised  under  Alexander  iii. 


THE  PALE  HORSE  77 

the  one  at  the  head,  and  the  other  at  the  feet, 
where  the  body  of  Jesus  had  lain. 

'  And  they  say  unto  her.  Woman,  why 
weepest  thou  ?  She  saith  unto  them,  Because 
they  have  taken  away  my  Lord,  and  I  know 
not  where  they  have  laid  him. 

'  And  when  she  had  thus  said,  she  turned 
herself  back,  and  saw  Jesus  standing,  and  knew 
not  it  was  Jesus. 

'  Jesus  saith  unto  her,  Woman,  why  weepest 
thou  ?  Whom  seekest  thou  ?  She,  suppos- 
ing him  to  be  the  gardener,  saith  unto  him. 
Sir,  if  thou  have  borne  him  hence,  tell  me 
where  thou  hast  laid  him,  and  I  will  take  him 
away. 

'  Jesus  saith  unto  her,  Mary.  She  turned 
herself,  and  saith  unto  him,  Rabboni ;  which  is 
to  say.  Master.' 

Vania  stopped  reading.  There  was  silence 
around  us. 

'  Did  you  hear,  George  ?  '  he  asked. 

'  Yes,  I  heard  it  all.' 

'  Is  it  merely  a  story  ?     Tell  me.' 

'  But  you,  Vania,  do  you  believe  it  ?  ' 

He  went  on,  quoting  the  text  by  heart : 

'  But    Thomas,    one    of   the    twelve,    called 


78  THE  PALE  HORSE 

Didymus,  was  not  with  them  when  Jesus 
came. 

'  The  other  disciples  therefore  said  unto  him, 
We  have  seen  the  Lord.  But  he  said  unto 
them,  Except  I  shall  see  in  his  hands  the  print 
of  the  nails,  and  put  my  finger  into  the  print 
of  the  nails,  and  thrust  my  hand  into  his  side, 
I  will  not  believe. 

'  And  after  eight  days  again  his  disciples  were 
within,  and  Thomas  with  them.  Then  came 
Jesus,  the  doors  being  shut,  and  stood  in  the 
midst,  and  said.  Peace  be  unto  you. 

'  Then  saith  he  to  Thomas,  Reach  hither 
thy  finger,  and  behold  my  hands ;  and  reach 
hither  thy  hand,  and  thrust  it  into  my  side; 
and  be  not  faithless,  but  believing. 

'  And  Thomas  answered  and  said  unto  him, 
My  Lord  and  my  God. 

'  Jesus  saith  unto  him,  Thomas,  because  thou 
hast  seen  me  thou  hast  believed :  blessed 
are  they  that  have  not  seen,  and  yet  have 
believed.' 

'  Yes,  George,  "  blessed  are  they  that  have 
not  seen,  and  yet  have  believed." ' 

Evening  was  approaching  with  its  fresh  cool- 
ness.    Vania  shook  his  curly  head  vigorously. 


THE  PALE  HORSE  79 

'  Good-bye,  George,  for  all  time.  And  be 
happy.' 

There  was  sadness  in  his  honest  eyes. 

'  What  about  "  thou  shalt  not  kill,"  Vania  ?  ' 
I  asked. 

'  No,  George,  no.  .  .  .' 

'  You  say  that  ?  ' 

'  I  do.  We  have  to  kill  in  order  that  no 
one  should  kill  after  that;  that  men  should 
live  for  ever  according  to  the  divine  law,  and 
that  love  should  for  ever  brighten  men's  lot.' 

'  This  is  sacrilege,  Vania.' 

'  I  know.     And,  "  thou  shalt  not  kill "  ?  * 

He  stretched  out  to  me  both  his  hands  and 
smiled  with  an  expansive  bright  smile.  Then 
he  kissed  me  like  a  brother. 

'  Be  happy,  George  ! ' 

I  also  kissed  him. 

May  11, 

I  had  an  appointment  to-day  with  Fedor 
in  a  tea-shop.     We  discussed  our  plans  in  detail. 

I  left  the  place  first.  Once  in  the  street, 
I  noticed  three  detectives  at  a  neighbouring 
gate.  I  knew  them  by  their  furtive  eyes  and 
fixed  glances.  I  stopped  at  a  shop  window 
and  stood  without  moving.     I  became  a  detec- 


80  THE  PALE  HORSE 

tive  myself  and  watched  them.  I  wondered 
whether  they  were  on  our  track. 

In  a  short  while  Fedor  came  out  of  the  tea- 
shop,  and  walked  tranquilly  down  the  street. 
One  of  the  detectives,  a  tall,  red-haired  man  in 
a  white  apron  and  a  soiled  cap,  rushed  immedi- 
ately into  a  cab.  The  other  two  ran  after 
him.  But  a  '  likhach  '  ^  drove  empty  up  the 
street  and  Fedor  hired  him.  The  whole  pack 
rushed  after  him — ^the  pack  of  hare  hounds. 
I  thought  him  lost. 

I  myself  did  not  remain  unobserved.  I 
saw  very  queer  people  near  me.  There  was 
a  man  in  an  overcoat  which  was  obviously 
not  his  own.  He  stood  with  his  head  bent 
low,  and  his  red  hands  folded  behind  his  back. 
Then  I  saw  a  lame  man  in  tatters,  a  beggar 
from  the  market-place.  Presently  I  noticed 
also  my  recent  acquaintance,  the  Jew.  He 
was  in  a  top-hat  with  a  black  clipped  beard. 
I  realised  that  I  was  about  to  be  arrested. 

The  clock  struck  twelve.  At  one  o'clock  I 
had  an  appointment  with  Vania  in  a  lane. 
Vania  had   not   yet   sold   his   horse.     He   was 

1  Superior  class  of  cab-drivers,  provided  with  fast-running 
horses  and  smart  carriages. 


THE  PALE  HORSE  81 

still  a  cab-driver,  I  secretly  hoped  that  he 
would  manage  to  drive  me  quickly  away. 

I  turned  into  the  main  street,  where  I  hoped 
to  get  lost  in  the  crowd.  But  there  was  again 
the  same  figure  in  front  of  me  with  its  hands 
folded  behind,  and  its  legs  tangled  in  the  tails 
of  the  too  long  overcoat.  And  the  Jew  in  the 
top -hat  walked  persistently  at  my  side.  I 
noticed  that  he  did  not  turn  his  eyes  from  me 
for  a  moment.  I  turned  into  the  lane.  Vania 
was  not  there.  I  walked  the  whole  length 
of  it  and  turned  sharply  round.  Some  one's 
eyes  penetrated  me  like  nails.  Some  one  was 
watching  with  sharp  eyes,  some  one  was  quick 
to  follow  every  step  I  made. 

I  returned  to  the  main  street.  I  calculated 
that  at  the  next  turning  there  was  a  passage 
with  a  door  leading  into  the  lane.  I  rushed 
into  the  passage  and  took  refuge  behind  the 
entrance  gate.  I  pressed  my  back  to  the  wall 
and  remained  motionless.  The  minutes  passed 
slowly  like  hours.  I  knew  that  the  black  Jew 
was  close  by.  He  was  watching  and  waiting 
for  me.  He  was  the  cat  and  I  the  mouse. 
The  door  could  be  reached  in  four  steps.  With 
a  sudden   spring   I   was   in   the  lane.     I   saw 

F 


82  THE  PALE  HORSE 

Vania  driving  slowly  in  front  of  me.  I  rushed 
towards  him. 

'  Drive  as  fast  as  you  can,  Vania  !  ' 

The  wheels  rattled  on  the  pavement,  the 
springs  creaked  at  the  turnings.  We  turned 
round  a  corner.  Vania  lashed  his  poor  horse. 
I  looked  back ;  the  street  was  empty  at  the 
turning.  No  one  was  following  us.  We  were 
safe. 

But  we  are  being  watched ;  there  is  no  doubt 
about  that.  But  I  am  not  losing  hope.  Perhaps 
we  had  attracted  the  notice  of  the  detectives 
merely  by  accident  ?  They  may  not  know 
who  we  are.  And  we  may  still  carry  out  our 
plan  before  they  catch  us. 

But  I  suddenly  recalled  Fedor.  What  has 
become  of  him  ?     Has  he  been  arrested  ? 

May  12. 

I  went  to  the  restaurant  where  Fedor  was 
to  meet  me.  I  had  to  make  sure  as  to  what 
had  happened  to  him.  If  he  was  captured,  our 
project  was  doomed.  If  he  managed  to  escape 
safely,  we  might  by  to-morrow  execute  our 
plan,  and  then  .  .  . 

I  sat  down  at  a  table  by  the  window.     I 


THE  PALE  HORSE  83 

could  see  the  street,  the  poKceman  in  his  wet 
cloak,  the  driver  on  the  seat  of  the  closed 
carriage,  the  umbrella  of  an  occasional  passer- 
by. The  rain  was  beating  on  the  window-panes 
and  streaming  depressingly  down  the  roofs.  It 
was  altogether  grey  and  dull. 

Fedor  entered  with  his  spurs  clanking.  He 
shook  hands  with  me.  The  familiar  figures 
loomed  in  the  street,  in  the  rain.  Two  men, 
hiding  their  wet  faces  in  their  collars,  were 
watching  the  entrance  door.  Two  more  were 
standing  with  the  policeman  at  the  corner. 
One  of  them  was  the  lame  beggar  I  saw  yester- 
day. My  eyes  sought  the  Jew :  there  he  was 
in  the  gateway. 

'  Fedor,'  I  said,  '  we  are  being  watched.' 

'  No  ?  ' 

'  Well,  we  are.' 

'  Impossible  !  ' 

I  took  him  by  his  sleeve. 

'  Look,'  I  said. 

He  looked  intently  out  of  the  window. 

'  Oh,  that  lame  man  .  .  .  wet  like  a  dog. 
.  .  .  Yes,  indeed.  .  .  .  Danm  it !  .  ,  .  What 
are  we  to  do,  George  ?  ' 

The  house  was  surrounded.     We  had  little 


84  THE  PALE  HORSE 

chance  of  escaping.     We  would  be  stopped  in 
the  street. 

'  Is  your  revolver  ready,  Fedor  ?  * 

'  Eight  cartridges.' 

'  Let  us  go,  then.' 

We  came  down  the  stairs.  The  hall-porter 
in  his  braided  livery  respectfully  opened  the 
front  door  for  us. 

We  walked  out  shoulder  to  shoulder. 
Fedor' s  sword  trailed  after  him  with  a  clang. 
I  knew  :  Fedor  was  ready  for  anything,  and 
so  was  I. 

Suddenly  Fedor  nudged  me  with  his  elbow 
and  whispered  hurriedly  :    '  Look,  George,  look.' 

A  single  '  likhdch '  was  standing  at  the  corner. 

'  Here  is  a  quick  horse  for  you,  sir.  .  .  .' 

'  Be  quick,  run.  .  .  .  There  will  be  five 
roubles  for  your  tip.' 

The  prize  trotter  went  at  a  quick  trot.  Clods 
of  mud  flew  in  our  faces.  A  net  of  rain  stretched 
across  the  sky.  A  voice  shouted  from  behind  : 
'  Stop  ! ' 

The  horse  was  steaming  heavily.  I  shook 
the  driver  by  his  shoulder. 

'  Go  on,  driver !  You  will  have  another 
five  roubles ! ' 


THE  PALE  HORSE  86 

Once  in  the  park,  we  jumped  into  the  bushes. 
The  grass  was  wet,  the  trees  were  heavy  with 
rain.  The  rain  made  hollows  in  the  roads.  We 
ran  across  the  puddles. 

*  Good-bye,  Fedor.     Leave  town  this  evening.' 

His  uniform  showed  for  an  instant  among 
the  green  bushes  and  disappeared.  I  returned 
to  town  in  the  evening,  but  did  not  go  back  to 
the  hotel.  Our  plan  was  completely  ruined. 
And  what  has  become  of  Vania,  of  Heinrich, 
and  of  Erna  ? 

I  had  no  lodging  to  go  to,  and  I  spent  the 
long  night  walking  the  streets.  The  time 
dragged  on  slowly.  I  felt  tired  and  chilled, 
and  my  feet  were  aching.  But  I  was  not  dis- 
heartened.    My  hope  remained  within  me. 


May  18. 
I  sent  a  note  to  Elena,  and  made  an  appoint- 
ment with  her.  She  came  to  meet  me  in  the 
park.  She  had  sparkling  eyes  and  black  curls. 
'  The  great  waters  cannot  quench  love,'  I  said 
to  her,  '  nor  can  the  streams  drown  it :  love 
is  strong  hke  death.  .  .  .  Say  one  word,  Elena, 
and  I  will  give  up  everything  to  be  your  slave.' 


86  THE  PALE  HORSE 

She  looked  at  me  and  smiled.  Then  she  said 
musingly,  'No.' 

I  bent  closely  to  her  and  said  in  a 
whisper  : 

'  Do  you  love  him,  Elena  ?  ...  Do  you  ?  * 

She  was  silent. 

'  You  don't  love  me,  Elena  ?  ' 

With  a  rapid  movement  she  suddenly 
stretched  out  her  long,  slender  arms  and 
embraced  me.     She  whispered  : 

'  I  love  you,  I  love  ypu,  I  love  you.' 

I  heard  her  words  and  felt  the  contact  of 
her  body.  A  fierce  joy  flamed  up  within  me, 
and  I  said  with  an  effort : 

'  I  am  going  away,  Elena.' 

She  grew  pale.  I  looked  straight  into  her 
eyes. 

'  Listen,  Elena,'  I  said.  '  You  don't  love 
me.  You  don't  know  me.  If  you  loved  me 
you  would  be  worried  about  me.  I  am  being 
shadowed;  my  life  hangs  by  a  thread.  But 
it  is  all  the  same  to  me  since  you  do  not 
love  me.' 

'  What  ?  '  she  asked  in  agitation.  '  Did 
you  say  they  are  shadowing  you  ?  ' 

The  evening  wind  was  rustling  dryly,  there 


THE  PALE  HORSE  87 

was  a  smell  of  rain  in  the  air.  No  one  was 
to  be  seen  in  the  park  :   we  were  alone. 

'  Yes,  I  am  being  shadowed,'  I  said  in  a 
loud  voice. 

'  George  dear,  get  away  quickly !  .  .  . 
quickly  !  .  .  .* 

I  laughed. 

'  Not  to  return,'  I  said.  '  Is  that  what  you 
mean  ?  ' 

'  Oh  no,'  she  said.     '  I  love  you,  George.' 

'  Don't  mock  at  me.  How  dare  you  speak 
of  love  ?  Is  that  love  ?  You  are  living  with 
your  husband;  how  can  you  love  a  stranger 
at  the  same  time  ?  ' 

'  I  love  you,  George.' 

'  You  love  me  ?  .  .  .  But  there  is  your 
husband.' 

'  Oh,  my  husband.  .  .  .  Don't  speak  about 
him,  please.' 

'  But  you  do  love  him.     Don't  you  ?  ' 

Again  she  did  not  reply,  and  I  went  on  : 

'  I  love  you,  Elena,'  I  said.  '  I  will  come 
back  and  you  shall  be  mine.     You  shall.' 

'  I  am  with  you,  dearest ;  I  am  yours.  .  .  .' 

'  And  his  as  well.  Do  you  mean  that  ?  and 
his?' 


88  THE  PALE  HORSE 

I  left  her.  The  evening  was  passing.  The 
lanterns  showed  a  yellow  light.  Anger  was 
stifling  me.  I  went  on  repeating  to  myself: 
his  and  mine,  mine  and  his.  And  his,  and  his, 
and  his. 

May  15. 

To-day's  papers  announce  that  preparations 
have  been  discovered  for  an  attempt  on  the 
governor's  life ;  that,  in  consequence  of  timely 
measures,  the  criminal  gang  did  not  succeed 
in  its  devilish  plot,  but  that  the  plotters  have 
managed  to  escape  and  are  not  yet  arrested. 
Measures  have  been  taken  to  find  them. 

'  Measures  have  been  taken.'  But  have 
not  we  taken  our  measures  as  well  ?  We 
have  not  scored  a  victory,  yet  that  does  not 
mean  a  defeat.  Fedor^  Erna,  and  Heinrich 
have  already  left ;  Vania  and  I  are  leaving 
to-day.     We  will  come  back. 


PART    II 

July  4. 
Six  weeks  have  elapsed,  and  I  am  back  in  N. 
I  have  spent  these  weeks  on  an  old  estate 
belonging  to  a  family  of  nobles.  A  streak  of 
road  was  visible  outside  the  white  gates,  the 
old  green  wood  was  bordered  with  young 
birches  on  the  outskirts.  The  fields  to  both 
sides  of  the  road  shone  yellow.  The  corn  was 
whispering,  the  oats  were  drooping  their  heavy 
heads.  In  the  midday  heat  I  used  to  stretch 
myself  out  on  the  soft  ground  ;  the  ears  of 
corn  stood  up  like  an  army,  the  poppies  shone 
red.  A  smell  of  clover,  of  sweet  peas,  filled 
the  air.  The  clouds  melted  away  languidly. 
A  vulture  soared  leisurely  in  the  clouds.  It 
flapped  its  wings  gracefully  and  paused  motion- 
less in  the  air.  And  all  Nature  seemed  to  pause 
motionless  with  it :  there  was  only  the  heat 
and  the  black  dot  above. 

My  eyes  followed  it  intently.  .  .  . 

But  in  the  town  the  air  is  foul  and  full  of 


90  THE  PALE  HORSE 

corrosive  dust.  Long  rows  of  carts  drag  along 
the  dusty  streets.  The  wheels  rumble  heavily. 
Heavy  exertions  are  made  by  the  heavy  horses. 
The  carriages  go  on  ceaselessly.  Then  there 
are  the  street  organs,  the  loud  clank  of  the 
tram-bells.     Human  voices  scold  and  shout. 

I  am  waiting  for  night.  At  night  the  city 
will  go  to  sleep,  human  spite  will  subside. 
In  the  deep  of  the  night  hope  will  again  shine 
forth. 

*  I  will  give  thee  the  morning  star.' 

July  6. 
I  am  no  more  an  Englishman.  I  am  a 
merchant's  son :  Frol  Semenov  Titov,  timber 
merchant  from  the  Ural.  I  live  in  cheap 
apartments ;  I  go  to  Mass  to  the  parish  church 
on  Sunday.  The  most  experienced  eye  would 
not  recognise  me  as  George  O'Brien.  The 
table  in  my  room  has  a  dirty  tablecloth,  and 
near  it  stands  a  lame  chair.  A  bouquet  of 
faded  geraniums  is  on  the  window-sill :  portraits 
of  the  Tsars  are  hanging  on  the  wall.  The 
dirty  samovar  hums  in  the  morning,  there  is 
the  slamming  of  doors  in  the  corridor.  .1  am 
alone  in  my  cage. 


THE  PALE  HORSE  91 

Our  first  failure  has  embittered  me.  and  I 
am  full  of  hate.  All  my  thoughts  are  con- 
centrated on  him,  on  the  governor.  I  can't 
sleep  at  night — I  whisper  his  name  all  the  time  ; 
and  in  the  morning  my  first  thought  is  of  him. 
I  can  see  him  before  me,  the  grey  old  man  with 
the  pale  smile  on  his  bloodless  lips.  He  has 
an  utter  contempt  for  us. 

I  hate  his  white  house,  his  coachmen,  his 
guard,  his  horses.  I  hate  his  gold  spectacles, 
his  steel  eyes,  his  sunken  cheeks,  his  stature, 
his  idle  life,  his  clean,  well-fed  children.  I 
hate  his  selfish  assurance,  his  hatred  for  us. 
I  hate  him. 

Erna  and  Heinrich  are  already  back  here. 
I  am  expecting  Vania  and  Fedor.  The  town 
is  calm;  they  have  forgotten  us.  On  the 
fifteenth  the  governor  will  drive  to  the  theatre. 
We  will  catch  him  on  the  way. 

July  10. 

Andrei  Petrovich  has  come  again.  I  saw 
his  lemon-coloured  face,  his  wedge-shaped  beard. 
He  had  an  embarrassed  look  as  he  stirred  his 
tea. 

'  Have  you  read  it,  George  ?  ' 


92  THE  PALE  HORSE 

'  Yes.' 

'  Well.  .  .  .  That 's  the  sort  of  thing.  .  .  .' 

He  wore  an  old-fashioned  suit,  a  black  tie, 
and  held  a  cheap  cigar  in  his  mouth. 

'  How  are  things  getting  on,  George  ?  * 

'  What  things  ?  ' 

'  Well,  you  know  .  .  .' 

'  Things  are  getting  on  well.' 

'  But  rather  slowly.  .  .  .  You  should  strike 
just  now.  .  .  .  Most  convenient  moment.  .  .  .' 

'  If  we  are  slow,  Andrei  Petrovich,  do  it  more 
quickly  yourself.' 

He  looked  very  embarrassed,  and  drummed 
with  his  fingers  on  the  table. 

'  Listen,  George.' 

'  Well  ?  ' 

'  The  committee  has  decided  to  act  vigorously.' 

'  Well  ?  ' 

'  I  say  that  in  view  of  present  circumstances 
it  has  been  decided  to  act  vigorously.' 

I  gave  no  answer.  We  were  sitting  in  a 
dirty  tavern,  the  '  Progress.'  The  gramo- 
phone was  rumbling  hoarsely.  The  aprons 
of  the  waiters  showed  white  through  the  blue 
smoke.     Andrei  Petrovich  went  on  friendlily  : 

'  Are  you  satisfied,  George  ?  ' 


THE  PALE  HORSE  98 

*  Why  should  I  be  satisfied,  Andrei  Petro- 
vich  ?  ' 

'  Well,  because  of  the  decision  to  act  vigor- 
ously ?  ' 

'  What  ?  ' 

'  Oh,  God  .  .  .  but  I  've  just  told  you.' 

He  was  sincerely  pleased  to  have  given  me 
pleasure.     I  laughed. 

*  Oh,  you  have  decided  to  act  vigorously  ? 
.  .  .  Very  well.' 

'  But  what  do  you  think  about  it  ?  ' 

'I?     Nothing.' 

'  What  do  you  mean  ?  ' 

I  rose  from  my  chair. 

'  I  am  very  pleased,  Andrei  Petrovich,  with 
the  decision  of  the  committee,  but  I  don't 
mean  to  act  more  vigorously  than  I  am  acting 
now.' 

'  But  why,  George  ?    Why  ?  ' 

'  Try  it  yourself.' 

In  sheer  amazement  he  let  his  hands  fall  on 
the  table.  He  had  yellow  hands,  and  his 
fingers  were  stained  with  tobacco. 

'  Is  that  a  joke,  George  ?  ' 

'  No,  I  am  not  joking.' 

I  left  him.     He  probably  sat  a  long  time 


94  THE  PALE  HORSE 

there,  sipping  his  glass  of  tea,  pondering  over 
the  question  as  to  whether  I  had  not  made 
fun  of  him,  and  whether  he  had  not  offended 
me.  And  again  I  said  to  myself :  poor  old 
man,  poor  grown-up  child  ! 

July  12. 

Vania  and  Fedor  are  already  here.  I  have 
settled  all  the  details  with  them.  Our  plan 
remains  the  same.  In  three  days,  on  July  15, 
the  governor  is  going  to  the  theatre. 

At  seven  o'clock  Erna  will  hand  me  the 
bombs.  She  will  make  them  in  the  hotel,  in 
her  room.  She  will  dry  the  mercury  on  the 
spirit-lamp,  solder  the  glass  tubes,  put  in  the 
fuse.  She  knows  her  work  well.  I  don't 
anticipate  any  accidents. 

At  eight  o'clock  I  will  distribute  the  bombs. 
Vania  will  take  his  post  at  one  gate,  Fedor  at 
the  second,  Heinrich  at  the  third.  We  are 
no  longer  under  observation.  I  am  sure  of 
that.     That  gives  us  power — a  sharp  sword. 

July  14. 
I  remember  the  time  I  was  in  the  north, 
beyond  the  polar  circle,  in  a  Norwegian  fishing 
village.     There  was  not  a  tree  in  the  place, 


THE  PALE  HORSE  95 

not  a  bush,  not  even  grass.  There  was  nothing 
but  the  bare  chffs,  the  grey  sky,  the  grey, 
gloomy  ocean.  The  fishermen  in  leather  jackets 
were  drawing  in  the  wet  nets.  There  was  a 
smell  of  fish  and  blubber.  I  felt  such  a  com- 
plete stranger  to  all  the  sights — to  the  sky, 
the  sea,  the  cliffs,  the  blubber,  to  those  sombre 
people  and  their  unfamiliar  talk.  I  lost  myself. 
I  was  a  stranger  to  myself. 

And  to-day  again  I  felt  out  of  touch  with 
everything.  I  went  to  the  Tivoli  gardens  and 
took  a  seat  in  front  of  the  open-air  stage.  The 
bald-headed  conductor  was  swinging  his  bow  : 
the  flutes  in  the  orchestra  emitted  dismal 
sounds.  Rope-dancers  in  pink  tights  appeared 
on  the  well-lit  platform.  They  climbed  up 
the  posts,  like  cats,  and  leapt  downwards ; 
they  turned  round  in  the  air,  jumped  over 
each  other,  and,  bright  in  the  night  darkness, 
caught  hold  of  the  trapezes  with  firm  hands. 
I  looked  indifferently  at  their  strong,  elastic 
bodies.  What  am  I  to  them  and  they  to  me  ? 
.  .  .  The  dull  crowd  was  passing  by,  the  dry 
sand  was  crunching  under  their  feet.  Shop 
assistants  with  frizzed  hair  and  fat  tradesmen 
were  walking  lazily  up  and  down  the  garden. 


96  THE  PALE  HORSE 

They  drank  their  brandy  in  a  bored  way,  and 
abused  each  other  and  laughed.  The  women 
sought  something  greedily  with  their  eyes. 

The  evening  sky  grew  dark,  the  night  mist 
obscured  the  sky.  To-morrow  is  our  day.  A 
clear,  distinct  thought,  as  sharp  as  steel,  came 
to  me.  There  is  no  love,  no  world,  no  life. 
There  is  only  death.  Death  is  the  crown— 
the  crown  of  thorns. 

July  16. 

The  heat  was  stifling  all  day  yesterday. 
The  trees  in  the  park  were  sullenly  silent. 
There  were  signs  of  an  approaching  thunder- 
storm. The  first  peal  of  thunder  came  from 
behind  a  white  cloud.  A  black  shadow  fell 
upon  the  earth.  The  tops  of  the  firs  began  to 
murmur,  the  yellow  dust  rose  in  the  air.  The 
rain  fell  among  the  leaves  noisily.  The  first 
lightning  flashed  restrainedly  with  a  blue 
flame. 

At  seven  o'clock  Erna  came  to  the  appointed 
place  to  meet  me.  She  was  dressed  like  a 
woman  of  the  lower  class  ;  she  wore  a  green 
skirt  and  a  knitted  shawl.  Her  disobedient 
curls  showed  from  under  the  shawl.  She 
carried  a  basket  with  linen. 


THE  PALE  HORSE  97 

I  cautiously  took  from  her  what  she  brought 
me  and  put  it  in  my  portfoho.  It  made  my 
hand  ache  with  its  weight. 

Erna  heaved  a  sigh. 

'  Are  you  tired  ?  '   I  asked. 
.   '  No,  George,  I  am  all  right.' 

'  Well,  what  is  the  matter  with  you  ?  ' 

'  Georgie,  may  I  go  with  you  ?  ' 

'  No,  Erna.' 

*  O  George,  please.' 

'  No ;  impossible.' 

I  saw  a  timid  entreaty  in  her  eyes. 

'  Go  home,'  I  said  to  her,  '  and  come  back 
to  this  very  place  at  midnight.' 

'  George  .  .  .' 

'  The  time  is  up,  Erna.' 

It  was  still  wet ;  the  birches  were  trembling, 
but  the  glovv  of  the  sunset  already  appeared  in 
the  sky.  I  left  Erna  sitting  alone  on  the 
bench.     She  would  be  alone  until  midnight. 

At  eight  o'clock  sharp  all  were  standing  at 
their  posts.  I  walked  about  near  the  governor's 
house.     I  waited  for  his  carriage  to  drive  up. 

The  lanterns  of  the  carriage  suddenly  flashed 
in  the  darkness.     I  heard  the  glass  door  slam. 
A  grey  shadow  appeared  on  the  white  steps, 
a 


98  THE  PALE  HORSE 

The  black  horses  turned  slowly  round  the 
entrance  and  drove  on  at  a  slow  trot.  .  .  . 

The  governor  had  already  reached  the  third 
gate.  .  .  . 

I  waited. 

The  minutes  passed  slowly  like  days,  like 
long  years. 

I  waited. 

The  darkness  became  denser,  the  square 
blacker,  the  towers  higher,  the  silence  deeper. 

I  waited. 

The  tower  clock  struck  again. 

I  strolled  slowly  to  the  third  gate  and  saw 
Heinrich  standing  there  motionlessly,  in  his 
blue  peasant  coat  and  his  cap. 

'  Heinrich  ! ' 

'  Is  that  you,  George  ?  ' 

'  Heinrich,  the  governor  has  passed  by.' 

'  Where  ?     Who  has  passed  by  ?  ' 

'  The  governor.     He  drove  past  you.' 

'  Past  me  ?  ' 

He  grew  pale.  His  dilated  eyes  gleamed 
feverishly. 

'  Past  me  ?  ' 

'  Where  were  you  ?     Yes,  where  were  you  ?  ' 


THE  PALE  HORSE  99 

'  Where  ?  .  .  .  I  was  here  ...  at  the  gate.' 

'  And  didn't  you  see  ?  ' 

'  No.  .  .  .' 

We  stood  under  the  dim  hght  of  the  street 
lamp.     The  flame  burned  evenly. 

'  George,'  said  Fedor. 

'  Well  ?  ' 

'  I  can't.  ...  I  '11  drop  it.     Take  it  quickly.' 

We  stood  under  the  gaslight  and  looked 
into  each  other's  eyes.  We  did  not  speak. 
The  clock  struck  a  third  time. 

'  I  '11  see  you  to-morrow.' 

He  waved  his  hand  in  despair. 

'  To-morrow.  .  .  .' 

I  went  back  to  my  room.  There  was  noise 
in  the  corridor,  drunken  voices  were  heard.  At 
last  I  was  alone  in  the  darkness. 

July  17. 
Heinrich  spoke  excitedly : 

'  I  stood  in  the  gateway  at  first,'  he  said. 

'  I   stood  there    for    about    ten  minutes.  .  .  . 

Then  I  noticed  that  I  had  been  seen.     I  walked 

up  the  street  .  .  .  then  I  returned  and  stood 

again.     There  was  no  sign  of  the  governor.     I 

walked  away.  .  .  .  And  that  was  probably  the 

time  he  drove  past.  .  .  .' 


100  THE  PALE  HORSE 

He  covered  his  face  with  his  hands. 

'  What  shame  .  .  .  what  shame  !  ' 

He  had  not  slept  that  night.  He  had  blue 
shadows  under  his  eyes  and  red  spots  on  his 
cheeks. 

*  George,  do  you  beheve  me  ?  '  he  asked. 

'  Yes.' 

We  were  silent  for  a  moment,  and  then  I  said  : 

'  Look  here,  Heinrich,  why  are  you  engaged 
at  this  ?  If  I  were  in  your  place,  I  should  do 
peaceful  work.' 

'  I  can't.' 

'  Why  ?  ' 

'  Oh,  why  ?  .  .  .  Has  this  to  be  done  or  not  ? 
You  know  it 's  needed.' 

'  Well,  what  of  that  ?  ' 

'  Then  how  can  I  be  out  of  it  ?  What  right 
have  I  not  to  do  it  ?  How  could  I  accept  it 
in  principle  and  shrink  from  carrying  it  out. 
.  .  .  How  could  I  ?  ' 

'  Why  not  ?  ' 

'  Why  not  ?  .  .  .  I  can't  say.  Other  people 
might  be  like  that.  ...  I  am  not.  ...  I 
can't.  .  .  .' 

^And  again; he  buried  his  face  in  his  hands; 
again  he  whispered  as  in  a  dream  : 


THE  PALE  H0R;3E  iOl 

'OGod!  O  God!  .  .  ; 

A  silence  followed. 

'  George,'  he  said  at  last,  '  be  frank  with  me ; 
do  you  believe  me  or  not  ?  ' 

'  I  told  you  I  do.' 

'  And  will  you  give  me  another  chance  ?  ' 

I  was  silent. 

He  insisted. 

'  Yes ;  you  must  let  me  .  .  .'  he  said  slowly. 

I  was  again  silent. 

'  Oh,  if  that  is  so  .  .  .  then  .  .  .  then  .  .  .' 

There  was  terror  in  his  voice. 

'  Calm  yourself,  Heinrich,'  I  said,  '  you  shall 
have  all  you  want.' 

'  Thank  you,'  he  whispered. 

Once  at  home,  I  asked  myself:  Why  is  he 
here  ?     And  whose  fault  is  it  ?     Mine  ? 

July  18. 
Erna  complained  : 

'  When  will  it  all  end,  George  ?  '    she  asked. 

'  When  ?  ' 

'  What  wiirend,  Erna  ?  ' 

'  I  can't  live  for  murder.     I  can't.' 

The  four  of  us  were  sitting  in  a  private  room 

of  a  dingy  restaurant.     The  dirty  mirrors  had 


102  THE  PALE  HORSE 

names  traoe^d  on  them ;  a  piano  put  out  of 
tune  stood  at  the  window.  Behind  the  thin 
partition  some  one  was  playing  '  Matchiche.' 

Although  it  was  hot  in  the  room,  Erna 
wrapped  herself  in  a  shawl.  Fedor  was  drink- 
ing beer.  Vania  put  his  pale  hands  on  the 
table  and  rested  his  head  on  them.  All  were 
silent.  At  last  Fedor  spat  on  the  floor  and 
said  : 

'  That 's  what  comes  from  too  much  haste — 
we  made  fools  of  ourselves.  .  .  .  That  beast 
Heinrich  spoiled  our  game.  .  .  .' 

Vania  raised  his  eyes  and  looked  at  him. 

'  How .  can  you,  Fedor  ?  '  he  said.  '  Why 
do  you  say  that  ?  We  must  not  blame  Hein- 
rich.    All  of  us  are  to  blame.' 

'  Why  all  of  us  ?  .  .  .  What  I  say  is  :  if  a 
man  calls  himself  a  terrorist  he  ought  to  know 
what  it  means  and  take  the  consequences.' 

There  was  a  pause.  Then  Erna  said  in  a 
whisper  : 

'  O  God !  .  .  .  What  does  it  matter  who  is 
right  and  who  is  wrong  ?  I  can't  bear  it.  I 
can't.' 

Vania  tenderly  kissed  her  hand. 

'  You    are    suffering,    Erna    dear,'    he    said. 


THE  PALE  HORSE  108 

'  But  think  of  Heinrich.  How  hard  it  is  for 
him.  .  .  ; 

The  ^  Matchiche '  went  on  behind  the  parti- 
tion. Drunken  voices  were  singing  music-hall 
songs. 

'  Oh,  Vania,  it  is  not  only  Heinrich.  ...  I 
too  can't  endure  this  life.  .  .  .' 

She  began  to  sob. 

Fedor  frowned ;  Vania  said  nothing.  And  I 
wondered  :   why  suffer,  why  seek  consolation  ? 

July  20. 

I  am  lying  with  closed  eyes.  The  noise  of 
the  street  comes  in  through  the  open  window ; 
the  stone  city  breathes  heavily.  In  a  sort  of 
half-dream  I  see  Erna  before  me. 

She  is  locking  the  door,  and  I  can  hear  the 
sharp  click  of  the  lock.  She  slowly  walks  to 
the  table  and  slowly  lights  the  spirit-lamp. 
A  greyish  powder  is  spread  on  the  cast-iron 
board — it  is  oxy hydrogen  mercury.  The  blue 
tongues  of  flame — like  serpents'  fangs — lick  the 
iron.  The  explosive  powder  is  drying.  The 
little  grains  glitter  and  crackle.  The  small 
leaden  load  moves  along  the  glass.  This  load 
is  to  break  the  vent  tube.     One  of  my  com- 


104  THE  PALE  HORSE 

rades  perished  in  doing  similar  work.  His 
corpse,  or,  rather,  pieces  of  it,  was  found  in 
the  room :  the  splashed  brains,  the  blood- 
covered  chest,  the  lacerated  legs  and  arms.  All 
this  was  heaped  into  a  cart  and  carried  away  to 
the  police  station.     Erna  runs  the  same  risk. 

What  if  she  should  actually  be  blown  up  ? 
If,  instead  of  flaxen  hair  and  wondering  blue 
eyes,  there  should  remain  only  a  red  heap  of 
flesh  ?  .  .  .  Then  Vania  would  have  to  do  the 
work  in  her  place.  He  is  also  a  chemist,  and 
can  do  the  work  well. 

I  open  my  eyes.  A  ray  of  sunlight  has 
pierced  the  curtain,  and  is  shining  on  the  floor. 
I  fall  again  into  reverie.  And  the  same 
thoughts  come  back  to  me.  Why  Heinrich  ? 
Heinrich  is  not  a  coward.  Yet  a  blunder  is 
worse  than  fear.  Or  is  it  only  chance  ?  His 
majesty.  Chance  ? 

It  is  all  the  same  to  me.  All  the  same  to 
me.  Suppose  I  am  responsible  for  Heinrich 
being  with  us.  Suppose  it  is  his  fault  that 
the  governor  is  still  alive.  Suppose  Erna  is 
blown  up.  Suppose  Vania  and  Fedor  are 
hanged.  But  the  governor  shall  be  killed. 
Such  is  my  wilL 


THE  PALE  HORSE  105 

I  rise.  The  people  are  bustling  in  the  square 
under  my  window  like  black  ants,  each  intent 
on  his  personal  cares,  on  petty  everyday 
interests.     I  despise  them. 

July  21. 

Chance  brought  me  to-day  near  Elena's  house. 
Huge  and  dirty,  it  looks  sullenly  on  the  square. 
Force  of  habit  impelled  me  to  look  for  the  bench 
on  the  boulevard.  Force  of  habit  also  made  me 
count  the  minutes,  as  I  whispered  :  I  shall  see 
her  to-day.  When  I  think  of  her  I  am  somehow 
reminded  of  a  strange  southern  flower,  a  plant 
of  the  tropics — of  the  burning  sun  and  the 
scorched  cliffs.  I  see  the  hard  leaf  of  the  cactus, 
the  zigzags  of  the  stems,  and  in  the  centre  of 
the  pointed  thorns  a  full  scarlet  flower.  One 
might  think  a  drop  of  red  blood  had  spurted 
forth  and  coagulated  into  purple.  I  had  seen 
such  a  flower  in  the  south,  in  a  strange  luxuriant 
garden,  among  palms  and  orange-trees.  I  had 
stroked  its  leaves  ;  its  thorns  pricked  my  hands  ; 
I  breathed  in  its  poignant,  penetrating,  and 
intoxicating  perfume.  The  sea  glittered,  the 
sun  was  at  its  height,  a  mysterious  spell  was 
at  work.  The  red  flower  bewitched  me  and 
tortured  my  soul. 


106  THE  PALE  HORSE 

But  I  have  no  desire  for  Elena  now.  I  don't 
want  to  think  of  her.  I  don't  want  to  remember 
her.  I  am  possessed  by  my  strange  passion  for 
vengeance.  And  I  ask  myself  no  longer  :  Is 
vengeance  worth  while  ? 

July  22. 

He  drives  in  his  carriage  to  his  office  twice  a 
week,  between  three  and  five.  He  never  takes 
the  same  route  or  goes  on  the  same  days.  We 
will  mark  his  departure,  and  in  a  day  or  two 
we  will  post  our  men  at  all  the  roads.  Vania 
will  wait  for  him  on  Post  Street,  Fedor  in  the 
Crooked  Lane,  Heinrich  will  be  posted  in  reserve 
on  a  street  further  off.  We  can  hardly  fail  this 
time. 

What  would  I  be  doing  if  I  had  not  taken  up 
this  work  ?  I  don't  know.  It  is  hard  to  tell. 
But  I  am  certain  of  one  thing  :  I  don't  want  a 
peaceful  life. 

The  opium  smokers  have  blissful  dreams ; 
they  see  the  serene  groves  of  paradise.  I  don't 
smoke  opium,  and  I  have  not  blissful  dreams. 
But  what  would  my  life  be  worth  without  the 
struggle  and  the  joyous  feeling  that  the  laws  of 
life  are  non-existent  for  me  ?  And  I  may  even 
say  :    '  Thrust  in  thy  sickle  and  reap  :    for  the 


THE  PALE  HORSE  107 

time  is  come  for  thee  to  reap ' — ^it  is  time  to  get 
rid  of  those  who  are  not  with  us. 

July  25. 

'  You,  Fedor,  take  up  your  post  in  Crooked 
Lane.  The  governor  is  more  Ukely  to  take  the 
way  held  by  Vania.  But  you  nmst  be  also 
ready  to  strike.  And  remember  :  I  depend  on 
you  absolutely.' 

He  had  given  up  long  ago  his  uniform  of  the 
dragoons,  and  now  wears  the  regulation  cap  of 
an  official  in  the  Ministry  of  Justice.  He  is 
clean  shaven  and  his  black  moustaches  are 
turned  up. 

'  They  shall  get  it  this  time,  George.' 

'  Are  you  sure  ?  ' 

'  Quite.     He  can't  escape.' 

We  were  on  the  outskirts  of  the  town,  in  the 
park. 

'  Fedor ! ' 

'  Well  ?  ' 

'  If  you  are  going  to  be  tried,  you  mustn't 
forget  to  have  a  counsel  for  your  defence,' 
>    '  A  counsel  ?  ' 

'Yes.' 

'  You  mean,  some  lawyer  ?  ' 

'  Yes,  certainly.' 


108  THE  PALE  HORSE 

'  I  don't  want  one.     I  hate  those  lawyers.' 

'  Well,  do  as  you  like.' 

'  And  there  will  be  no  trial.  .  .  .  What  do  I 
want  a  trial  for  ?  I  will  reserve  the  last  shot 
for  myself  .  .  .  that  will  settle  it.' 

And  I  knew  by  his  voice  :  his  last  shot  would 
be  for  himself. 

July  27. 

I  sometimes  think  of  Vania,  of  his  love,  of  his 

deep  faith.     I  don't  believe  in  his  words.     I 

don't  understand  how  a  man  can  believe  in  love, 

love  God,  and  live  for  the  sake  of  love.     If  it 

were  not  Vania  who  said  these  words,  I  would 

have  laughed.    But  I  don't  laugh  at  him.    Vania 

could  apply  to  himself  the  lines  of  Pushkin's 

Prophet : 

'  Tormented  by  a  spiritual  thirst,  I  wearily  passed 
across  the  bleak  desert.  And  a  six-winged  seraph 
appeared  before  me  at  the  crossing  of  the  roads.' 

And  these  lines  also  : 

*  And  he  struck  my  breast  with  his  sword,  and 
took  out  my  trembling  heart — and  a  coal,  aflame 
with  fire,  he  put  into  the  open  breast.' 

Vania  will  die.  He  will  cease  to  exist.  *  The 
coal  aflame  with  fire  '  will  become  extinguished. 
And  I  ask  myself :  Is  there  a  difference  between 


m 


THE  PALE  HORSE  109 

him  and,  say,  Fedor  ?     Both  will  kill.     Both 
will  die.     Both  will  be  forgotten.     The  differ- 
ence is  not  in  their  actions,  but  in  their  words. 
And  when  I  think  like  that,  I  laugh. 

July  29. 

'  You  don't  love  me  at  all,'  said  Erna.  '  You 
have  forgotten  me.  ...  I  am  a  stranger  to  you 
now.' 

'  Yes,  you  are  a  stranger  to  me,'  I  answered 
reluctantly. 

'  George.  .  .  .' 

'  What,  Erna  ?  ' 

'  Don't  speak  like  that.' 

She  was  not  crying  to-day.  She  was  calm. 
So  I  said  : 

'  What  can  you  be  thinking  of,  Erna — at  such 
a  moment?  Don't  you  see?  We  are  having 
failure  after  failure.' 

She  repeated  in  a  whisper  : 

'  Failure  after  failure  !  ' 

*  And  you  ask  for  love.  There  is  no  love  in 
me  now.' 

'  You  love  another  woman.' 

*  Perhaps.' 

'  Tell  me  the  truth,' 


110  THE  PALE  HORSE 

'  I  told  it  you  long  ago  :  yes,  I  love  another,' 

Her  whole  body  was  drawing  towards  me. 

'  I  don't  care,'  she  said.  '  Love  whomsoever 
you  will.  I  can't  live  without  you.  I  will  love 
for  ever.' 

I  looked  into  her  sad  blue  eyes. 

'  Erna  !  ' 

'  George  dear.  .  ,  .' 

'  Erna,  you  had  better  go.' 

She  kissed  me. 

'  Oh,  George,  I  want  nothing ;  I  ask  for 
nothing.  I  only  want  you  to  be  with  me  now 
and  then.' 

The  night  fell  slowly  upon  us. 

July  31. 

I  said  :  I  don't  want  to  remember  Elena. 
Yet  all  my  thoughts  are  with  her.  I  cannot 
forget  her  eyes  :  they  hold  the  midday  light. 
I  cannot  forget  her  hands,  her  long,  transparently 
rosy  fingers.  The  eyes  and  the  hands  reflect 
the  soul.  How  can  there  be  an  ugly  soul  in  a 
beautiful  body  ?  .  .  .  But  suppose  she  is  not 
free  and  proud,  but  a  slave.  What  does  it 
matter  ?  I  want  her,  and  there  is  none  superior 
to  her ;  none  stronger  or  more  joyous  than  she. 
My  love  for  her  gives  her  beauty  and  strength. 


» 


# 


THE  PALE  HORSE  111 

There  are  summer  nights  dim  with  mist,  A 
turbid  milk-white  fog  rises  from  the  soil  satu- 
rated with  dew.  The  bushes,  the  dim  outlines 
of  the  wood,  are  submerged  in  its  warm  waves. 
The  stars  gleam  faintly.  The  air  is  thick  and 
d«ump,  and  smells  of  new-mown  hay.  These  are 
the  nights  when  the  meadow-spirit  hovers  over 
the  swamps  and  casts  its  spells. 

Am  I  not  bewitched  now  ?  Why  should  I 
be  concerned  with  Elena,  her  thoughtless  life, 
her  military  husband,  her  future  as  wife  and 
mother  ?  And  yet  I  am  fettered  to  her  with 
an  iron  chain.  And  I  have  not  the  strength  to 
break  the  chain.     Why  should  I,  after  all  ? 

August  3. 
To-morrow  is  our  day.  It  will  be  again 
Erna,  again  Fedor,  Vania,  and  Heinrich.  I  don't 
want  to  think  of  to-morrow.  Is  it  because  I 
am  afraid  to  think  ?  Yet  I  am  full  of  antici- 
pation, and  I  believe  in  to-morrow. 

August  5. 
This  is  what  happened  yesterday  : 
At  two  o'clock  I  took  the  bombs  from  Erna. 
I  said  good-bye  to  her  and  went  to  meet  Hein- 
rich,   Vania,    and    Fedor    on    the    boulevard. 


112  THE  PALE  HORSE 

Fedor  took  up  his  post  in  Crooked  Lane,  Vania  ^ 
in   Post   Street,   Heinrich   in   a   distant   small 
street. 

I  entered  a  tea-room,  ordered  a  glass  of  tea, 
and  sat  down  at  the  window.  The  air  was 
stifling.  The  wheels  were  rattling  on  the  pave- 
ment, the  roofs  of  the  houses  were  exhaling  heat. 
I  had  not  long  to  wait,  hardly  more  than  five 
minutes.  I  remember  quite  distinctly :  the 
clear  noise  of  the  street  was  suddenly  interrupted 
by  a  heavy,  strange,  loud  noise.  It  was  as  if 
some  one  had  struck  a  ponderous  blow  with  a 
cast-iron  hammer  on  a  cast-iron  bar.  This  was 
followed  immediately  by  a  crash  of  broken  glass. 
Then  all  was  silent  again.  The  people  in  the 
street  rushed  in  a  noisy  crowd  in  the  direction 
of  Crooked  Lane.  A  ragged  boy  shouted  some- 
thing in  a  loud  voice.  A  woman  with  a  basket 
in  her  hand  threatened  some  one  with  her  fist 
and  spoke  violently.  The  house-porters  came 
running  out  of  the  gateways.  The  Cossacks 
galloped  down  the  street.     Some  one  said  : 

'  The  governor  has  been  killed.' 

I  made  my  way  through  the  crowd  with  great 
difficulty.  The  crowd  swarmed  in  the  lane.  The 
smell  of  hot  smoke  still  lingered  in  the  air.     Bits 


THE  PALE  HORSE  118 

of  glass  were  scattered  on  the  pavement,  the 
broken  wheels  were  lying  in  a  black  heap.  I 
could  see  that  the  carriage  had  been  smashed 
to  pieces.  A  tall  workman  in  a  blue  shirt  stood 
in  front  of  me.  He  was  swinging  his  bony  arms 
and  saying  something  quickly  and  excitedly.  I 
was  about  to  push  him  aside  in  order  to  come 
nearer  the  carriage,  when  suddenly  I  heard  sharp 
shots  coming  in  quick  succession  from  another 
street  on  the  right.  I  rushed  in  that  direction. 
I  knew  that  it  was  Fedor  who  fired.  The  crowd 
pressed  me  hard,  almost  crushed  me  in  its  em- 
brace. The  reports  of  firing  sounded  again,  but 
further  away,  and  they  were  shorter  and  fainter. 
Then  there  was  silence.  The  workman  turned 
his  consumptive  face  to  me  and  said  : 

'  I  say,  doesn't  he  fire !  .  .  .' 

I  gripped  his  hand  and  pushed  him  violently 
aside.  But  the  crowd  closed  in  tighter  in  front 
of  me.  I  could  see  nothing  but  necks  and  beards 
and  broad  backs.  And  suddenly  I  heard  the 
words  : 

'  But  the  governor  is  safe.  .  .  .'     ~ 

'  And  have  they  been  caught  ?  ' 

'  Not  that  I  know  of.' 

'  They  certainly  will  be.  .  .  .  They  must.  .  .  .' 

H 


114  THE  PALE  HORSE 

'  Y — yes.  .  .  .  They  are  a  great  many  now- 
adays .  .  .  these  .  .  .' 

I  returned  home  very  late  that  evening.  All 
I  remembered  was  :   '  The  governor  is  safe.' 

August  6. 

It  was  published  in  to-day's  papers  that,  '  as 
the  governor's  carriage  turned  into  Crooked 
Lane,  a  young  man,  wearing  the  uniform 
of  an  official  in  the  Ministry  of  Justice, 
stepped  from  the  sidewalk  on  the  pavement. 
He  carried  in  one  hand  a  box  tied  with  a 
ribbon. 

'  As  he  approached  the  carriage  he  took  the 
box  in  both  hands  and  threw  it  under  the  wheels. 
A  terrible  explosion  followed.  Fortunately, 
the  governor  was  unhurt.  He  rose  to  his  feet 
unaided  and  walked  to  the  nearest  house  porch, 
where  he  remained  until  the  arrival  of  his  escort, 
which  had  been  ordered  by  telephone.  The 
governor's  coachman  was  badly  wounded  in  the 
head.  He  died  after  he  had  arrived  at  the 
hospital.  The  assassin,  after  having  accom 
plished  his  deed,  began  to  run.  The  policeman 
on  duty  and  a  detective  ran  after  him.  The 
assassin  fired  two  successful  shots  while  running, 


THE  PALE  HORSE  115 

and  killed  both  his  pursuers.  Another  police- 
man made  an  attempt  to  stop  him,  but  was 
severely  wounded  in  the  stomach.  In  Post 
Street  the  assassin  was  stopped  by  the  inspector 
of  the  first  police  district  and  the  house-porters. 
He  killed  two  house-porters  with  two  shots, 
and  took  refuge  in  the  courtyard  of  the  house 
No,  8.  The  house  was  immediately  surrounded 
by  foot  and  horse  police,  and  a  battalion  of  the 
N.  regiment  summoned  by  telephone.  The  pre- 
mises of  the  house  were  searched  and  the  criminal 
was  discovered  hiding  in  a  back  corner  of  the 
yard,  behind  piles  of  firewood.  He  responded 
to  the  invitations  to  surrender  with  more  shots, 
one  of  which  killed  the  colonel.  A  running  fire 
was  directed  at  him  after  that.  Hiding  behind 
the  woodpiles,  the  assassin  fired  several  more 
shots.  He  slightly  wounded  two  soldiers  and 
a  non-commissioned  officer.  When  the  firing 
ceased  the  grenadiers,  penetrating  behind  the 
woodpiles,  discovered  the  dead  body  of  the 
criminal ;  it  contained  four  wounds,  two  of 
which  were  fatal.  The  assassin  is  a  young  man 
of  about  twenty-six,  with  dark  hair,  tall  and 
strongly  built.  No  documents  were  found  on 
him.    In  the  pockets  of  his  trousers  he  had  two 


11«  THE  PALE  HORSE 

revolvers  of  the  Browning  patent  and  a  box  of 
cartridges. 

*  Measures  are  being  taken  to  ascertain  his 
identity.' 

August  7. 

I  am  lying  with  my  face  buried  in  the  hot 
pillows.     The  day  is  breaking. 

Again  a  failure  !  Worse  than  a  failure — a 
catastrophe.  We  are  absolutely  beaten.  Fedor 
certainly  did  all  he  could.  At  any  rate  he  did 
not  miss  the  carriage. 

I  don't  feel  sorry  for  Fedor.  I  am  not  even 
sorry  that  I  was  unable  to  come  to  his  rescue. 
Well,  I  might  have  killed  another  five  house- 
porters  and  policemen.  That  is  far  from  my 
purpose.  .  .  .  But  I  regret  that  I  did  not  know 
the  governor  was  only  a  few  steps  from  me, 
in  a  house  porch.  I  would  have  watched  for 
him. 

We  will  not  leave  town.  We  will  not  sur- 
render. If  we  cannot  waylay  him  in  the  street, 
we  will  go  to  his  house.  He  is  calm  now  :  he 
is  enjoying  his  triumph.  He  has  no  cares,  no 
fears.  But  our  day  must  come.  Then  it  will 
be  done. 


THE  PALE  HORSE  117 

August  8. 

'  Everything  is  lost,  George,'  said  Heinrich 
to  me. 

All  my  blood  rushed  to  my  face. 

'  Shut  up  ! ' 

He  stepped  back,  frightened. 

'  George,  what  is  the  matter  with  you  ?  ' 

'  Stop  that  nonsense  !  Nothing  is  lost.  You 
ought  to  be  ashamed  to  speak  like  that.' 

'  But  Fedor  .  .  .' 

'Don't  talk  to  me  of  Fedor.  .  .  .  Fedor  is 
dead.' 

'  Oh,  George.  .  .  .  But  that  means  .  .  .  that ,  .  .' 

'  Well,  go  on.' 

'No.  .  .  .  Just  think.  .  .  .  No.  .  .  .  But  I 
thought  .  .  .  What  are  we  to  do  now  ?  ' 

'  What  do  you  mean  by  "  what  are  we  to  do  "  ? ' 

'  They  are  after  us.' 

'They  always  are.' 

The  rain  was  drizzling.  The  sullen  sky  was 
weeping.  Heinrich  was  soaked  all  through,  and 
the  water  was  dripping  from  his  worn  cap.  He 
had  grown  thinner  and  had  sunken  eyes. 

'  George  ! ' 

'  Well  ?  ' 

'Believe   me.  .  .  .  I  .  .  .  What  I  want   to 


118  THE  PALE  HORSE 

say  is  this  .  .  .  We  are  two  now,  Vania  and 
myself.     Two  are  not  enough.' 

'  We  are  three.' 

'  Who  is  the  third  ?  ' 

'  I  am.     You  forget  that.' 

'  You  ?  ' 

'  Why,  of  course.' 

A  silence  followed. 

'  It 's  very  difficult  to  do  it  in  the  street, 
George.' 

'  What 's  difficult  ?  ' 

'  Difficult  to  do  it  in  the  street,  I  say.' 

'  We  will  go  to  his  house.' 

'  To  his  house  ?  ' 

'  Yes.     Why  are  you  so  astonished  ?  ' 

'  You  still  have  hope,  George  ?  ' 

'  I  am  certain.  .  .  .  You  ought  to  be  ashamed 
of  yourself,  Heinrich.' 

He  took  my  hand  wdth  an  embarrassed  air. 

'  Forgive  me,  George.' 

'  Yes,  certainly.  But  remember  :  now  that 
Fedor  has  been  killed,  it  is  our  turn.  Do  you 
understand  ?  ' 

He  answered  in  an  agitated  whisper  :   '  Yes.' 

But  at  that  instant  I  regretted  that  Fedor 
was  no  more  at  my  side. 


THE  PALE  HORSE  119 

August  9. 

I  forgot  to  light  the  candles.  In  the  grey 
twilight  I  could  see  Erna's  vacillating  silhouette 
in  the  corner.  She  came  stealthily  to  my  room 
to-day  and  did  not  speak.  She  did  not  even 
smoke. 

'  George/  she  said  at  last. 

'  What  is  it,  Erna  ?  ' 

'  It  is — it  is  my  fault.' 

'  What  is  your  fault  ?  ' 

'  That  Fedor  .  .  .' 

She  spoke  slowly,  and  this  time  there  were 
no  tears  in  her  voice. 

'  Nonsense,  Erna.  Don't  you  torment  your- 
self.' 

'  Oh,  it  was  I ;  it  was  I  who  .  .  .' 

1  took  her  hand. 

'  It  is  not  your  fault,  Erna.  Take  my  word 
for  it.' 

'  He  might  have  remained  alive  .  .  .' 

'  Don't,  Erna.     You  simply  bore  me.' 

She  got  up  from  her  chair,  walked  a  few  steps, 
and  again  sat  down  heavily.     I  said  : 

'  Heinrich  thinks  we  had  better  give  it  up.' 

'  Who  thinks  that  ?  ' 

'  Heinrich,' 


120  THE  PALE  HORSE 

'Give  up?     Why?' 

'  Ask  him,  Erna.' 

'  Should  we  really  give  up  our  efforts,  George  ? ' 

'  You  think  so  too,  don't  you,  Erna  ?  ' 

'  I  wish  you  would  say  first.' 

'  Well,  of  course  not.     We  must  go  on.' 

Then  she  asked  with  anxiety  : 

'  Who  is  going  to  be  the  third  ?  ' 

'  I,  Erna.' 

'You?' 

'  Well,  yes.' 

She  dropped  her  head  and,  pressing  her  face 
to  the  window,  looked  out  on  the  dark  square. 
Then  she  suddenly  rose  and  walked  over  to  me, 
and  kissed  my  lips  passionately. 

'  George  dear.  .  .  .  Shall  we  die  together  ? 
.  .  .  George  ?  ' 

Again  the  night  fell  silently  upon  us. 

August  11. 
There  are  two  alternatives  left  to  us  :  the  first 
is  to  let  a  few  days  pass,  and  to  waylay  him 
again  in  the  street ;  the  second  to  go  to  his  house. 
I  know  that  we  are  being  sought  for.  We  will 
find  it  very  difficult  to  stay  another  week  in 
town.     And  even  more  difficult  to  take  up  the 


THE  PALE  HORSE  121 

same  posts.  Well,  let  us  say,  I  will  take  Fedor's 
place ;  Vania  will  return  to  his  previous  post,  and 
Heinrich  will  again  remain  in  reserve. 

But  the  police  are  on  the  alert.  The  streets 
are  full  of  detectives.  They  are  watching  for 
us.  They  may  surround  us  and  seize  us  by 
surprise.  And  will  the  governor  drive  through 
the  same  streets  ?  He  could  easily  choose  some 
roundabout  way.  .  .  .  But  what  if  we  go  to 
his  house  ?  Of  course,  I  don't  care  who  dies  in 
the  explosion — whether  his  family,  his  detec- 
tives, or  his  escort.  But  the  risk  is  great,  The 
house  is  a  large  one  and  has  many  rooms.  .  .  . 
I  have  great  doubts  after  carefully  considering 
all  the  '  pros '  and  '  cons.'  I  am  not  sure  whether 
we  ought  to  go  there.  How  hard  it  is  to  decide. 
Yet  we  must  decide. 

August  18. 

Vania  is  a  gentleman  now  :  he  wears  a  soft 
hat,  a  light-coloured  tie,  a  grey  jacket.  His  hair 
is  curly  as  before,  and  his  pensive  eyes  sparkle. 

'  How  sad  that  we  have  lost  Fedor,'  he  said 
to  me. 

'  Very  sad  indeed.' 

He  smiled  a  melancholy  smile. 

'  It  is  not  Fedor  you  miss,'  he  said. 


122  THE  PALE  HORSE 

'  What  do  you  mean,  Vania  ?  ' 

'  You  are  sorry  you  lost  a  fellow- worker  ? 
Isn't  that  so  ?  ' 

'  Certainly.' 

'  You  see  yourself.  There  was  a  worker,  a 
genuine,  fearless  worker.  And  now  he  is  no 
longer  here.  And  you  say  to  yourself :  How 
shall  we  get  on  without  him  ?  ' 

'  It 's  quite  true.' 

'  There,  you  see.  ...  As  for  Fedor  personally, 
you  have  forgotten  him.     You  don't  miss  him.' 

A  military  band  was  playing  on  the  boulevard. 
It  was  Sunday.  The  working-men  were  strolling 
in  red  shirts,  with  concertinas  in  their  hands. 
They  were  chatting  and  laughing. 

'  Listen — I  can't  help  thinking  of  Fedor,'  said 
Vania.  '  To  me  he  was  not  merely  a  fellow- 
worker,  not  merely  a  revolutionary.  .  .  .  Just 
think  what  he  felt  hiding  behind  the  piles  of 
firewood.  He  was  firing,  and  he  knew  all  the 
time,  he  knew  with  every  drop  of  his  blood,  that 
his  death  was  coming.  How  long  did  he  look 
into  the  face  of  death  ?  ' 

'  Vania,  Fedor  was  not  afraid.' 

'  I  don't  mean  that,  Georgie.  I  know  he  was 
not.  .  .  .  But  can  you  actually  realise  his  agony  ? 


THE  PALE  HORSE  128 

Can  you  imagine  how  he  suffered  after  he  had 
been  wounded — ^when  his  eyes  grew  dim  and  his 
hfe  was  going  from  him  ?  Have  you  thought 
of  that  ?  ' 

'  No,  Vania,  I  have  not.' 

'  Then  you  never  loved  him,'  he  said  in  a 
whisper. 

'  Fedor  is  dead,'  I  said.  .  .  .  « It  would  be 
better  if  you  told  me  now  whether  we  ought  to 
go  to  .  .  .  there,  his  house  ?  ' 

'  To  his  house  ?  * 

'  Yes.' 

'  What  do  you  mean  ?  ' 

'  I  mean  whether  we  should  blow  up  the  whole 
house.' 

'  And  the  people  ?  ' 

'  What  people  ?  ' 

'  His  family,  the  children  ?  ' 

'  Is  that  what  you  are  thinking  of  ?  ,  .  . 
Nonsense.  .  .  .' 

Vania  was  silent  for  a  while.   ' 

'  George,'  he  said  at  last. 

'  What  ?  ' 

'  I  can't  agree  to  that.' 

'  Agree  to  what  ?  ' 

'  To  go  there.' 


124  THE  PALE  HORSE 

'  Nonsense.  .  .  .  Why  ?  ' 

'  I  can't  .  .  .  because  of  the  children.  .  .  . 
No,  George,'  he  went  on  in  great  agitation, 
'  don't  do  it.  How  can  you  take  such  a  respon- 
sibihty  ?  Who  gave  you  the  right  ?  Who  has 
permitted  you  to  do  it  ?  ' 

I  answered  coldly  : 

'  I  myself.' 

'  You  yourself  ?  ' 

'  Yes,  I.' 

He  was  trembling  all  over. 

'  George,  the  children  .  .  .' 

'  The  children  don't  matter.' 

'  George,  and  what  about  Christ  ?  ' 

'  What  has  Christ  to  do  with  it  ?  ' 

'  George,  don't  you  remember  ?  «'  I  am  come 
in  my  Father's  name  and  ye  receive  me  not ; 
if  another  shall  conie  in  his  own  name,  him  you 
will  receive."  ' 

'  What  is  the  use  of  quoting  texts,  Vania  ? ' 

He  shook  his  head. 

'  You  are  right ;  what  is  the  use  ?  .  .  .' 

We  were  silent  for  a  long  time.  At  last  I 
said  : 

'  Very  well.  .  .  .  Let  us  watch  for  him  in  the 
street.' 


THE  PALE  HORSE  125 

His  face  brightened  up  in  a  smile.  Then  I 
asked  him  : 

'  Perhaps  you  think  I  changed  my  mind 
because  of  the  texts  ?  ' 

'  Certainly  not,  George.     What  an  idea  ! ' 

'  I  have  simply  decided  that  in  the  street  there 
is  less  chance  of  failure.' 

'  Of  course,  much  less.  .  .  .  And  you  shall 
see :  we  will  succeed.  God  will  hear  our 
prayers.' 

I  left  him.  I  was  vexed  with  myself.  After 
all,  would  it  not  be  better  to  go  to  the  governor's 
house  ? 

August  15. 

My  thoughts  are  again  with  Elena.  Where 
is  she  ?  I  ask  myself.  Why  doesn't  she  try  to 
find  me  ?  How  can  she  live  without  knowing 
what  has  become  of  me  ?  That  means  she  does 
not  love  me.  She  has  forgotten  me.  Her  kisses 
were  lies.     But  eyes  like  hers  do  not  lie. 

I  don't  know.  I  don't  want  to  know  any- 
thing. I  have  seen  the  joy  of  her  love ;  I  have 
heard  words  which  spoke  of  joy.  I  want  her, 
and  I  will  come  and  take  her.  Perhaps  this  is 
not  love.  Perhaps  to-morrow  her  eyes  shall 
grow  dim,  and  the  laugh  so  dear  to  me  shall  bore 


126  THE  PALE  HORSE 

me.  But  to-day  I  love  her,  and  I  have  no  care 
about  to-morrow.  Just  now,  at  this  moment, 
she  stands  before  my  eyes  as  if  she  were  actually 
here.  I  can  see  her  plaited  black  hair,  the 
severe  outline  of  her  face,  the  bashful  rosiness 
of  her  cheeks.  I  call  her,  I  repeat  her  name  to 
myself.  Our  day  will  soon  arrive — ^it  will  be 
the  last,  sure  to  be  the  last.  .  .  .  Shall  I  ever 

see  her  or  not  ? 

August  17. 
To-morrow  we  will  wait  again  for  the  governor 
on  his  drive.     I  would  pray  if  I  could. 

August  18. 

Erna  prepared  the  explosives  for  the  third 
time.  At  three  o'clock  sharp  we  took  up  our 
posts.  I  had  a  box  in  my  hands.  Its  contents 
shook  rhythmically  with  every  step  I  made.  I 
walked  on  the  left  side  of  the  street.  There 
was  a  smell  of  autumn  in  the  warm  air.  In  the 
morning  I  already  observed  a  few  yellow  leaves 
on  the  birches.  Heavy  clouds  were  creeping 
along  the  sky.  A  few  drops  of  rain  came  down 
now  and  then. 

I  was  very  careful  lest  any  one  should  push 
me.  .  .  .  There  were  many  eyes  watching  on 


THE  PALE  HORSE  12T 

the  sidewalks  and  at  the  crossings.  I  pretended 
not  to  see  any  one. 

I  turned  round.  The  street  was  very  quiet. 
I  was  afraid  the  governor  would  drive  past  me 
just  at  that  moment.  I  was  not  sure  I  would 
recognise  his  carriage.  And  what  if  I  were  not 
quick  enough  ?  .  .  . 

I  walked  up  and  down  for  about  half  an  hour. 
When,  for  the  third  time,  I  reached  the  corner 
of  the  square  and  the  clock  pavilion,  I  suddenly 
saw  a  narrow  spout  rising  up  from  the  ground 
next  to  Surikov's  house.  A  column  of  greyish- 
yellow  smoke,  almost  completely  black  on  the 
edges,  was  broadening  out  into  a  funnel  shape 
and  filling  the  whole  street.  And  at  the  same 
moment  I  heard  the  familiar  odd  cast-iron 
rumble.  A  cab-driver's  horse  rose  on  its  hind 
legs  startled  by  the  noise.  A  lady  in  a  large  black 
hat,  who  was  walking  in  front  of  me,  shrieked 
and  sat  down  on  the  sidewalk.  A  policeman 
stood  still  with  a  pale  face  for  a  moment, 
then  rushed  in  the  direction  of  the  sound. 

I  ran  to  the  Surikov  house.  Again  there  was 
the  crash  of  glass  and  the  smell  of  smoke.  I 
forgot  all  about  my  box,  the  contents  of  which 
beat    against   its    sides   with    quick    measured 


128  THE  PALE  HORSE 

knocks.     I  heard  cries,  and  I  knew  for  certain : 
this  time  he  was  killed. 

An  hour  later  extra  editions  announcing  the 
news  were  sold  in  the  streets. 

I  held  the  paper  in  my  hands,  and  my  eyes 
were  dim  with  excitement. 

August  20. 

Vania  has  managed  to  send  us  a  letter  from 
prison  : 

'  Contrary  to  my  desire,'  he  wrote,  '  I  was 
not  killed.  I  threw  the  bomb  from  a  distance 
of  three  paces  right  into  the  window  of  the 
carriage.  I  saw  the  governor's  face.  He  leaned 
hastily  back  when  he  saw  me  and  threw  up  his 
hands  to  protect  himself.  I  saw  how  the  carriage 
was  smashed  to  pieces  :  the  smoke  and  the 
splinters  flew  in  my  face.  I  fell  down.  When 
I  got  up  I  looked  round  and  saw  bits  of  clothing 
and  the  dead  body  lying  a  few  steps  away.  I 
was  not  wounded,  although  blood  was  streaming 
from  my  face  and  the  sleeves  of  my  coat  were 
burned  away.  I  walked  on,  but  the  next 
moment  some  one  seized  me  from  behind  with 
strong  hands.  I  made  no  resistance.  They 
took  me  away. 


THE  PALE  HORSE  129 

'  I  have  done  my  duty.  I  am  waiting  for  the 
trial  and  shall  meet  the  sentence  calmly.  I 
think  that  even  if  I  had  managed  to  escape  I 
should  not,  in  any  case,  be  able  to  go  on  living 
after  what  I  have  done.  I  embrace  you,  my  dear 
friends  and  companions,  and  I  thank  you  with 
all  my  heart  for  your  love  and  your  friendship. 

'  In  bidding  you  farewell,  I  should  like  to 
remind  you  of  the  words  :  "  Hereby  perceive 
we  the  love  of  God,  because  He  laid  down  His 
life  for  us  ;  and  we  ought  to  lay  down  our  lives 
for  the  brethren."  ' 

Vania  addressed  a  special  postscript  to  me. 
He  wrote  : 

'  You  may  wonder  how  I,  who  had  always 
spoken  of  love,  made  up  my  mind  to  kill,  and 
committed  the  greatest  sin  against  God  and 
men. 

'  I  had  no  choice.  If  I  had  the  pure  and 
innocent  faith  of  true  disciples  it  would  surely 
have  been  different.  I  know  :  the  world  shall 
be  saved  not  by  the  sword — but  by  love,  and 
love  will  rule  it.  But  I  did  not  feel  in  me  the 
strength  to  live  for  the  sake  of  love,  and  I  under- 
stood that  I  could  and  ought  to  die  for  the  sake 
of  it. 

I 


/ 


180  THE  PALE  HORSE 

'  I  do  not  repent,  but  neither  do  I  rejoice  in 
what  I  have  done.  My  blood  torments  me  and 
I  KNOW :  death  alone  is  not  redemption.  But  I 
,also  know :  "  I  am  the  Truth,  the  Way,  and  the 
Life."  Men  will  judge  me,  and  I  pity  them. 
But  I  must  face  this — I  firmly  believe — divine 
judgment.  My  sin  is  infinitely  great,  but  the 
mercy  of  Christ  is  also  boundless. 

'  I  kiss  you.  May  you  be  happy,  very 
happy.  ... 

'  But  remember :  "  He  that  loveth  not, 
knoweth  not  God  :   for  God  is  love."  ' 

I  read  these  leaves  of  cigarette  paper,  and  I 
ask  myself :  who  knows  but  that  Vania  is  right  ? 
...  Oh  no ;  the  sun  is  shining  hot  to-day,  the 
falling  leaves  are  rustling.  ...  I  am  strolling 
on  the  familiar  paths,  and  a  great  radiant  joy 
flames  in  my  soul.  I  pluck  the  autumn  flowers. 
I  breathe  in  their  vanishing  scent  and  I  kiss 
their  pale  petals. 

I  feel  as  if  it  were  Easter.  Like  the  solemn 
words  of  Resurrection  sound  the  prophetic 
words  : 

'  And  there  came  a  great  voice  of  the  temple  of 
heaven  from  the  throne,  saying :  ''  It  is  done."  ' 

I  am  happy  :  it  is  done. 


PART    III 

August  22. 
I  AM  still  hiding  here,  still  unable  to  leave.  The 
police  are  trying  hard  to  lay  hands  on  us.  I  have 
given  up  my  room  in  the  hotel  and  have  changed 
my  mask  for  the  third  time.  I  am  no  more  Frol 
Semenov  Titov — nor  the  Englishman  O'Brien. 
I  live  like  one  invisible.  I  have  no  name  and 
no  home.  In  the  daytime  I  stroll  in  the  streets, 
in  the  evening  I  seek  lodgings  for  the  night.  I 
sleep  where  I  can  :  in  a  hotel  one  day,  in  the 
street  the  next ;  then  in  the  houses  of  people 
who  are  perfect  strangers  to  me,  such  as  mer- 
chants, officials,  and  priests.  I  laugh  sometimes 
maliciously  :  my  hosts  look  at  me  apprehen- 
sively, and  treat  me  with  a  shy  respect. 

The  autumn  is  advanced.  The  old  park 
gleams  golden,  the  leaves  rustle  underfoot.  The 
pools,  covered  over  with  a  thin  crust  of  brittle 
ice,  glisten  in  the  early  morning  sun.  I  love  the 
sad  autumn.  I  like  to  sit  down  on  a  bench  in 
the  open  and  to  listen  to  the  wood's  rustling.     I 

181 


182  THE  PALE  HORSE 

am  enveloped  in  an  atmosphere  of  serene  peace. 
I  feel  as  if  there  were  no  death,  no  blood — ^but 
only  the  earth  sacred  to  all,  and  the  sacred 
heaven  above  it. 

The  recent  events  are  already  forgotten.  Only 
the  authorities  remember — and  we  too,  it  goes 
without  saying.  Vania  is  to  be  tried.  There 
will  be  the  usual  proceedings  and  speeches,  the 
sentence  will  be  passed  and  carried  out.  .  .  . 
Life  will  come  again  to  a  standstill. 

August  28. 

I  wrote  a  note  to  Elena  asking  her  to  meet 
me.  She  came,  and  I  felt  at  once  happy  and 
serene. 

I  felt  as  though  I  had  not  lived  through  long 
days  of  anxiety  and  expectation ;  as  though  I 
had  not  been- possessed  by  a  passionate  desire 
of  vengeance,  had  not  planned  murder  in  cold 
blood.  Such  a  state  of  joy  and  inner  peace 
overcomes  one  sometimes  on  summer  nights, 
when  the  stars  come  out  and  the  garden  is  filled 
with  the  warm,  strong  scent  of  flowers. 

Elena  was  in  a  white  dress ;  she  radiated 
freshness  and  health.  She  is  twenty  years  old. 
Her  eyes  were  not  smiling.     She  asked  shyly  : 


THE  PALE  HORSE  188 

'  Have  you  been  here  all  this  time  ?  ' 

'  Yes,  of  course,  I  've  been  here.' 

'  Then  you  .  .  .' 

And  she  dropped  her  eyes. 

I  had  the  greatest  desire  to  take  her  in  my 
arms,  to  lift  her  up  and  to  kiss  her  like  a  child. 
At  that  moment,  looking  at  her  and  into  her 
shining  eyes,  I  knew  I  loved  her  childish  laugh, 
the  simple  beauty  of  her  life,  and  I  listened 
enraptured  to  her  voice  : 

'  Oh,  God,  if  you  knew  how  anxious  I  was.' 

And  she  added  in  a  whisper  : 

'  How  awful !  .  .  .' 

She  blushed,  and  then  suddenly,  as  she  did 
the  other  day,  she  put  her  arms  softly  and 
caressingly  on  my  shoulders. 

Her  breath  was  burning  my  face,  and  our 
lips  met  in  unutterable  anguish. 

When  I  recovered  my  senses  she  was  sitting 
in  the  armchair.  I  still  felt  her  kiss  on  my 
lips,  and  she  seemed  so  near  to  me  and  yet  so 
distant. 

'  George,  dear  George,  don't  be  sad.' 

And  she  drew  towards  me — so  bashfully  and 
so  passionately.  I  kissed  her.  I  kissed  her 
hair  and  her  eyes,  her  pale  fingers,  her  dear  lips. 


184  THE  PALE  HORSE 

I  could  think  of  nothing  else.  I  only  knew  that 
I  held  her  palpitating  young  body  in  my 
arms. 

The  glow  of  the  sunset  came  in  through  the 
window.  A  red  ray  wandered  on  the  ceiling. 
She  lay  white  in  my  arms,  and  there  was  no 
more  remorse  for  the  blood  that  had  been  spilt. 

Everything  ceased  to  exist. 

August  24. 

Erna  leaves  town  to-day.  She  looked  some- 
how suddenly  faded  when  she  came  to  see  me. 
The  red  of  her  cheeks  was  gone,  and  only  her 
hair  was  helplessly  entangled  as  before — implor- 
ing as  it  were  for  pity.  I  took  a  long  farewell 
of  her. 

She  stood  before  me — so  fragile  and  with  such 
a  sad  face.  Her  dropped  eyelids  were  trembling. 
She  spoke  in  a  low  voice  : 

'  Well,  Georgie,  it  is  done.' 

'  Are  you  glad  ?  ' 

'  And  you  ?  ' 

I  wanted  to  tell  her  that  I  felt  happy  and 
proud,  but  there  was  no  exultation  in  my  soul 
at  that  moment.  I  remained  gloomily  silent. 
She  sighed.  Her  breast  heaved  nervously  and 
heavily  under  the  lace  of  her  dress.     She  obvi- 


THE  PALE  HORSE  185 

ously  wanted  to  say  something,  but  felt  flustered, 
had  not  the  courage  to  speak.     I  asked  : 

'  At  what  time  does  your  train  start  ? ' 

She  shuddered. 

'  At  nine.' 

I  looked  indifferently  at  my  watch. 

'  You  will  be  late,  Erna.' 

'  George  .  .  .' 

Her  courage  failed  her  again.  I  knew  she 
would  speak  of  love,  ask  for  pity.  But  I  had 
no  love  for  her  and  could  not  help  her. 

'  George  .  .  .  must  it  be  ?  ' 

'  What  must  it  be  ?  ' 

'  That  we  must  part  ?  ' 

'  Oh,  Erna,  we  are  not  parting  for  ever.' 

'  Yes,  for  ever.' 

I  could  hardly  hear  her,  she  spoke,  in  a  low 
whisper. 

I  answered  in  a  loud  voice  : 

'  You  are  tired,  Erna.  You  must  rest  and 
forget.' 

And  I  heard  her  whisper  : 

'  I  shall  never  forget.' 

And  the  next  moment  her  eyes  became  red, 
and  many  profuse  tears  streamed  down  her 
face,  like  water.     She  shook  her  head  ungrate- 


136  THE  PALE  HORSE 

fully.  Her  locks  of  hair  were  wet  with  tears 
and  dropped  helplessly  on  her  neck.  She  sobbed, 
and  whispered  incoherent  words,  as  though  she 
were  swallowing  them  : 

'  George  dear,  don't  leave  me  .  .  .  darling, 
don't  leave  me.' 

A  picture  of  Elena  rose  up  before  me.  I 
seemed  to  hear  her  clear,  happy  laugh,  and  to  see 
her  sparkling  eyes.     And  I  said  coldly  to  Erna : 

'  Don't  cry.' 

She  stopped  instantly,  wiped  her  tears,  and 
looked  sadly  out  of  the  window.  Then  she  rose 
and  approached  me  with  unsteady  steps. 

'  Good-bye,  George,  good-bye  ! ' 

I  repeated  like  an  echo  : 

'  Good-bye  ! ' 

She  stopped  at  the  door  before  she  opened  it, 
and  waited.  And  then  still  she  kept  on  whisper- 
ing  in  distress  : 

'  You  will  come  to  me.  .  .  .  Will  you, 
George  ?  ' 

August  28. 

Erna  is  gone.  Only  Heinrich  remains  with 
me  here,  but  he  will  follow  Erna.  I  know  he 
loves  her,  and  he,  of  course,  believes  in  love.  It 
seems  so  ridiculous,  and  it  irritates  me. 


THE  PALE  HORSE  187 

I  remember  the  time  I  was  in  prison  and 
expected  to  be  executed.  There  was  a  smell  of 
cheap  tobacco  and  of  prison  soup  in  the  corridor. 
The  sentry  was  passing  up  and  down  under  my 
window.  Now  and  then  bits  of  life  and  frag- 
ments of  conversations  reached  me  from  the 
street.  And  it  seemed  strange  :  outside  were 
the  sea,  the  sun  and  life — and  in  my  cell  were 
solitude  and  inevitable  death.  ... 

In  the  daytime  I  used  to  lie  on  my  iron  couch 
and  to  read  an  old  literary  magazine.  In  the 
evening  the  lamps  twinkled  dimly.  I  some- 
times climbed  stealthily  on  the  table  and  looked 
out  of  the  window,  while  gripping  the  iron  bars 
with  my  hands.  I  saw  the  dark  sky,  the 
southern  stars.  Venus  was  shining  bright.  I 
used  to  say  to  myself :  There  are  still  many  days 
before  me ;  there  will  be  more  mornings  and  days 
and  nights  for  me.  I  will  see  the  sun,  I  will 
hear  human  voices. 

I  somehow  could  not  believe  in  death.  It 
seemed  unnecessary  and  therefore  impossible. 
I  did  not  even  feel  joy  or  calm  pride  at  the 
thought  that  I  was  dying  for  my  cause.  I  felt 
strangely  indifferent.  I  did  not  care  to  live, 
but  did  not  care  to  die  either.     I  did  not  question 


188  THE  PALE  HORSE 

myself  as  to  my  past  life,  nor  as  to  what  there 
might  be  beyond  the  dark  boundary.  I  re- 
member I  was  much  more  concerned  as  to 
whether  the  rope  would  cut  my  neck,  whether 
there  would  be  pain  in  suffocation.  And  often 
in  the  evening,  after  the  roll-call,  when  the  drum 
ceased  beating  in  the  courtyard,  I  used  to  look 
intently  at  the  yellow  light  of  the  lamp,  stand- 
ing on  the  prison  table,  among  the  bread-crumbs. 
I  asked  myself :  Do  I  fear  or  not  ?  And  my 
answer  was  :  T  do  not.  I  was  not  afraid — I 
was  only  indifferent. 

And  then  I  escaped.  During  the  first  days 
there  was  the  same  dead  indifference  in  my 
heart.  I  did  mechanically  all  that  was  necessary 
to  avoid  being  recaptured.  But  why  I  did  it, 
why  I  fled  from  the  prison — that  I  could  not 
tell.  While  in  the  prison  I  thought  at  times 
that  the  world  was  beautiful,  and  I  longed  for 
the  open  air,  for  the  hot  sun.  But  once  free  I 
felt  a  weariness  again.  But  a  day  came  when 
I  was  walking  alone  in  the  evening.  The  sky 
was  already  dark  in  the  east,  and  the  early 
stars  made  their  appearance.  The  mountains 
were  veiled  with  a  rose-blue  mist.  The  night 
breeze  blew  from  the  river  below.     There  was 


THE  PALE  HORSE  139 

a  strong  smell  of  grass.  The  grasshoppers 
made  a  loud  noise.  The  air  was  sweet  and 
creamy. 

And  I  suddenly  realised  at  that  moment  that 
I  was  alive,  that  death  was  far  off,  that  life  was 
before  me,  that  I  was  young  and  strong  and  in 
perfect  health.  .  .  . 

I  have  the  same  feeling  now.  I  am  young, 
strong,  and  in  perfect  health.  I  have  escaped  from 
death  once  more.  And  I  ask  myself  for  the 
hundredth  time :  Was  it  wrong  on  my  part  to 
kiss  Ema  ?  But  it  might  have  been  worse  to 
have  ignored  her,  to  have  repulsed  her.  A 
woman  came  to  me  and  brought  me  love  and 
affection.  Why  does  affection  create  sorrow  ? 
Why  does  not  love  give  joy,  but  pain  ?  Love. 
.  .  .  Love.  .  .  .  Vania  used  also  to  speak  of 
love,  but  of  what  kind  of  love  ?  Do  I  know 
love  of  any  kind  ?  I  do  not  know,  cannot  know, 
and  do  not  try  to.  Vania  knows,  but  he  is  no 
more  with  me. 

September  1. 

Andrei  Petrovich  has  come  again.  He  had 
the  greatest  difficulty  in  finding  me,  and  when 
we  met  at  last  he  shook  my  hand  a  long  time 
and  with  great  joy.     His  old  face  was  beaming. 


140  THE  PALE  HORSE 

He  was  happy.  The  wrinkles  round  his  eyes 
relaxed  into  a  smile. 

'  I  congratulate  you,  George,'  he  said. 

'  What  about,  Andrei  Petrovich  ?  ' 

He  screwed  up  his  eyes  with  a  cunning  air, 
and  shook  his  bald  head. 

'  For  achieving  a  triumph  in  your  under- 
taking.' 

His  presence  bored  me,  and  I  had  a  desire  to 
leave  him.  His  words  and  silly  congratula- 
tions annoyed  me.  But  he  went  on  with  a 
candid  smile  : 

'  Yes,  George,'  he  said,  '  we  had  lost  all  hope 
— ^to  tell  you  the  truth.  After  all  those  con- 
tinual failures.  And  I  can  tell  you ' — he  stooped 
and  whispered  in  my  ear — '  we  even  thought 
of  dismissing  you.' 

'  Dismissing  me  ?  .  .  .  What  do  you  mean  ?  ' 

'  It  is  now  a  thing  of  the  past,  and  I  don't 
mind  telling  you.  We  did  not  believe  anything 
would  come  off.  It  took  such  a  long  time, 
and  nothing  whatever  was  done.  ...  So  we 
thought :  would  it  not  be  better  to  dismiss  you 
altogether  ?  It  seemed  all  so  hopeless.  .  .  .  Are 
we  not  old  fools  ?  .  .  .  Eh  ?  ' 

I  looked  at  him  in  sheer  amazement.     He  was 


THE  PALE  HORSE  141 

the  same  grey,  decrepit  old  man.     His  fingers 
were  stained  with  tobacco  as  before. 

'  And   you  .  .  .  you   thought   of  dismissing 
us?' 

'  There,  George,  you  are  cross  !  ' 

'  I  am  not.  .  .  .  But  tell  me,  do  you  really 
think  it  possible  to  dismiss  us  ?  ' 

He  patted  me  affectionately  on  my  shoulder. 

'  Oh,  you  are  ...  It 's   impossible  to  joke 
with  you.' 

Then  he  added  in  a  businesslike  tone  : 

'  Well,  and  what  do  you  intend  to  do  now  ? 
Tell  me.' 

'  Nothing,  as  far  as  I  can  see.' 

'  Nothing  ?  .  .  .  The     committee     has     de- 
cided .  .  .' 

'  The  conunittee  may  decide  whatever  it  likes. 
But  as  for  me  .  .  .' 

'Oh,  George!  .  .  .' 

I  laughed. 

'  Well,  why  are  you  so  upset,  Andrei  Petro- 
vich  ?     I  only  say  :   Give  me  time.' 

.He  lapsed  into  thought,  and  kept  on  munching 
with  his  lips  in  the  manner  of  an  old  man. 

'  Do  you  remain  here,  George  ?  '   he  asked  at 
last. 


142  THE  PALE  HORSE 

'  Yes.' 

'  You  had  better  go.' 

'  I  have  some  business  to  attend  to.' 

'  Some  business  ?  ' 

He  looked  grieved  :  what  sort  of  business 
could  I  have  ?     But  he  did  not  dare  to  ask  me. 

'  Well,  George,  we  will  talk  things  over  when 
you  come.' 

And  he  shook  hands  with  me  with  renewed 
good  spirits. 

Andrei  Petrovich  acted  like  a  judge :  he 
approved  and  disapproved.  I  did  not  contra- 
dict him.  He  was  so  sincerely  convinced  that 
I  appreciated  his  approval.  -  Poor  old  man  ! 

September  5. 

Vania's  trial  took  place  to-day.  I  am  lying 
on  the  couch  in  chance  lodgings,  my  head  buried 
in  the  hot  pillows.  It  is  night.  I  can  see  the 
sky  through  the  window  frame.  A  necklace  of 
stars  glimmers  in  the  sky  :  the  Great  Bear. 

I  know  :  Vania  was  lying  the  whole  day  on  his 
prison  couch,  got  up  now  and  then,  went  to  the 
table  and  wrote.  And  at  present  the  Great  Bear 
shines  to  him  as  it  does  to  me.  And  he  is  awake 
as  I  am. 


THE  PALE  HORSE  148 

I  also  know  :  a  man  in  a  red  shirt  will  come 
to  him  to-morrow  with  a  rope  and  a  whip  in  his 
hands.  He  will  tie  Vania's  hands  behind  his 
back,  and  the  rope  will  penetrate  deep  into  his 
flesh.  The  spurs  will  clank  under  the  vaults ; 
the  sentries,  with  dull  expressions  on  their  faces, 
will  present  arms.  The  gates  will  swing  wide 
open.  ...  A  warm  vapour  is  curling  upward 
on  the  sandbank,  the  feet  sink  into  the  wet  sand. 
The  sky  assumes  a  rosy  hue  in  the  east.  A 
hooked  pole  stands  out  against  the  pale-rose  sky. 
That  is  the  law.  Vania  ascends  the  platform. 
He  looks  quite  grey  in  the  morning  mist ;  his 
eyes  and  his  hair  are  of  the  same  colour.  It  is 
cold  and  he  shrinks,  draws  in  his  neck  into  the 
upturned  collar.  And  then  the  hangman  puts 
on  the  shroud,  draws  the  string.  The  shroud 
is  white,  and  close  by  stands  the  red  hangman. 
The  stool  is  pushed  back  with  a  sudden  noise. 
The  body  hangs  in  the  air.  Vania  has  been 
hanged. 

The  pillows  burn  my  face.  The  bedcover 
slips  to  the  floor.  I  feel  so  uncomfortable.  I 
see  Vania  before  me ;  I  see  his  enthusiastic  eyes, 
his  brown  hair.  And  I  timidly  ask  myself: 
Why?     Why?     Why? 


144  THE  PALE  HORSE 

September  5. 

I  say  to  myself:  There  is  no  Vania.  The 
words  are  simple,  yet  I  cannot  believe  them. 
I  cannot  believe  that  he  is  actually  dead.  I 
feel  as  if  there  might  be  a  knock  at  the  door, 
and  that  he  will  enter  quietly,  and  I  will  hear 
him  saying  again : 

'  He  that  loveth  not,  knoweth  not  God  :  for 
God  is  love.' 

Vania  believed  in  Christ.  I  don't.  Yet  what 
difference  does  it  make  ?  I  lie,  I  spy,  and  I  kill. 
Vania  also  lied,  spied,  and  killed.  We  all  live  by 
deceit  and  blood.  Is  it  all  done  for  the  sake 
of  love  ? 

Christ  ascended  Golgotha.  He  did  not  kill. 
He  gave  life  to  men.  He  did  not  lie.  He 
taught  men  the  truth.  He  betrayed  none — 
He  was  betrayed  by  His  disciple.  Then  it 
must  be  one  or  the  other.  Either  there  is  the 
way  up  to  Christ,  or/.  .  .  or,  as  Vania  said, 
the  way  down  to  Smerdiakov.  In  that  case  I 
too  am  Smerdiakov. 

I  know  :  there  was  sanctity  in  Vania  :  his 
truth  was  in  his  sufferings.  But  sanctity  and 
truth  are  inaccessible,  incomprehensible  to  me. 


THE  PALE  HORSE  145 

I  will  die  as  he  died,  but  my  death  will  be  dark : 
there  is  wormwood  in  the  bitter  waters. 


September  6. 
Elena  said  to  me  : 

'  I  felt  so  afraid  for  you.  ...  I  did  not  dare 
to  think  of  you.  .  .  .  You  are  .  .  .  so  strange.' 

We  were  in  the  park  as  before.  There  were 
signs  of  autumn  here,  the  withered  leaves  swirled 
in  the  wind.  It  was  cold,  and  there  was  a  smell 
of  earth  in  the  air. 

'  How  happy  I  am,  dearest.  .  .  .' 

I  took  her  hands  and  kissed  her  slender 
fingers,  and  my  lips  whispered  : 

'  My  love,  my  love,  my  love !  .  .  .' 

She  laughed. 

'  Don't  be  sad,'  she  said.     '  Be  happy.' 

But  I  answered  : 

'  Listen,  Elena.     I  love  you.     Come  with  me.' 

'  Why  ?  ' 

'  I  love  you.' 

She  pressed  her  graceful  body  close  to  me  and 
whispered  : 

'  I  also  love  you.     You  do  know  that  ?  ' 

'  But  your  husband  .  .  .' 

'  What  about  my  husband  ?  ' 

K 


146  THE  PALE  HORSE 

'  You  are  with  him.' 

'  Oh,  dearest.  .  .  .  What  does  it  matter  ? 
Now  I  am  with  you.' 

'  Stay  with  me  always.' 

She  laughed  her  clear,  sonorous  laugh. 

'  I  can't  say,  I  can't  say,'  she  answered. 

'  Don't  laugh  and  don't  joke,  Elena.' 

'  I  am  not  joking.' 

And  again  she  embraced  me. 

'  Must  one  love  for  ever  ?  Is  it  possible  to 
love  for  ever  ?  You  want  me  to  love  only 
you  and  no  one  else.  ...  I  can't.  ...  I  am 
going  .  .  .' 

'  To  your  husband  ?  ' 

She  nodded  without  saying  a  word. 

'  Then  you  love  him  ?  ' 
.  '  George  dear,  the  sunset  is  ablaze,  the  wind 
blows,  the  grass  whispers.  We  love  each  other. 
What  more  do  you  want  ?  Why  think  of  the 
past  ?  Why  should  we  know  of  what  will  be  in 
the  future  ?  Don't  torment  me.  I  don't  want 
to  be  miserable.  Let  us  be  happy.  Let  us  live. 
I  hate  sorrow  and  tears.  .  .  .* 

I  answered : 

'  You  said — you  are  his  and  mine.  Is  that 
so — ^tell  me  ?     Is  that  true  ?  ' 


THE  PALE  HORSE  147 

'  Yes,  it  is  true.' 

A  shadow  passed  over  her  face.  Her  eyes 
grew  sad  and  dark.  The  white  dress  was 
becoming  lost  in  the  growing  darkness. 

'  Why  ?  ' 

'  Oh,  why  ?  ' 

I  bent  low  to  her. 

'  But  if  ...  If  you  had  not  your  husband  ?  ' 

'  I  don't  know.  ...  I  don't  know  any- 
thing. .  .  .  Does  love  last  for  ever  ?  Don't 
ask  me,  dear.  .  .  .  And,  please,  stop  thinking 
about  it.' 

She  kissed  me  passionately.  I  was  silent. 
Jealousy  crept  slowly  into  my  soul :  I  don't 
want  to  share  her  with  any  one,  and  I  shan't. 

September  10. 
Elena  visits  me  secretly,  and  the  hours  and 
the  weeks  flow  on  rapidly  like  fast  waters.  The 
whole  world  is  now  centred  for  me  only  in  my 
love  for  her.  The  roll  of  memories  is  sealed,  the 
mirror  of  life  is  dimmed.  I  have  before  my  eyes 
Elena,  her  lips,  her  dear  hands,  all  her  youth 
and  her  love.  I  hear  her  laugh,  her  joyous  voice. 
I  play  with  her  hair,  and  kiss  greedily  her  happy, 
passionate  body.     The  night  descends  upon  us. 


148  THE  PALE  HORSE 

Her  eyes  become  more  radiant  in  the  night,  her 
laughter  sounds  louder,  her  kisses  sting  sharper. 
And  the  old  vision  comes  back  like  a  spell — ^the 
strange  southern  flower,  the  blood-red  cactus, 
enchanting  and  passionate.  What  do  I  care  for 
terrorism,  the  revolution,  the  gallows  and  death, 
since  she  is  with  me  ?  .  .  . 

She  enters  shyly  with  downcast  eyes,  and  then 
suddenly  her  cheeks  are  ablaze  and  I  hear  her 
sonorous  laugh.  She  sings  in  a  happy,  clear 
voice  as  she  sits  on  my  knees.  What  are  her 
songs  about  ?  I  don't  know.  I  don't  hear,  I 
feel  her  entire  being  acting  upon  me.  Her  joy 
resoimds  in  my  heart,  and  there  is  no  sadness 
left  in  me.     She  kisses  me  and  whispers  : 

'  I  don't  care.  .  .  .  You  may  be  gone  to- 
morrow, but  to-day  you  are  mine.  ...  I  love 
you,  dearest.' 

I  can't  understand  her.  I  know  that  women 
love  those  who  love  them ;  that  it  is  love  they 
love.  But  her  husband  to-day,  I  the  next  day, 
and  the  husband's  kisses  the  day  after.  .  .  . 
Once  I  said  to  her  : 

'  How  can  you  kiss  two  men  ?  ' 

She  raised  her  fine  eyebrows. 

'  Why  not,  dearest  ?  ' 


THE  PALE  HORSE  149 

I  didn't  know  what  to  answer.  I  said 
violently : 

'  I  don't  want  you  to  kiss  him.' 

She  laughed. 

'  And  he  doesn't  want  me  to  kiss  you.' 

'Elena!' 

'  What,  dearest  ?  ' 

'  Don't  speak  to  me  like  that.' 

'  Oh,  dearest.  .  .  .  What  does  it  matter  to 
you  whom  I  kiss  and  when  ?  Do  I  know  whom 
you  kissed  before  me  ?  I  want  to  know,  but 
can  I,  really  ?  To-day  I  love  you.  .  .  .  Aren't 
you  glad  ?     Aren't  you  happy  ?  ' 

I  wanted  to  tell  her :  You  have  no  shame,  no 
love.  .  .  .  But  I  said  nothing.  Was  there  any 
shame  left  in  my  own  soul  ? 

'  Listen,'  said  Elena  laughingly :  '  why  do  you 
speak  Uke  that  ?  Why  do  you  say  this  is  per- 
missible and  that  is  not  ?  Have  the  courage  to 
live,  to  be  happy,  to  get  love  out  of  Ufe  !  All 
resentment  is  idle,  and  there  is  no  need  to  think 
of  death.  The  world  is  big,  and  there  is  plenty 
of  joy  and  love  for  every  one.  There  is  no  sin  in 
joy,  no  deceit  in  kisses.  ...  So  give  up  think- 
ing, and  kiss.  .  ,  .' 

Then  she  added  : 


150  THE  PALE  HORSE 

'  You,  dearest,  you  don't  know  what  it  is  to  be 
happy.  .  .  .  Your  whole  life  is  centred  on  death. 
You  are  of  iron;  the  sun  is  not  for  you.  .  .  .  Why 
think  of  death  ?  You  would  do  better  to  live 
in  joy.  .  .  .  Don't  you  think  I  am  right  ?  ' 

I  made  no  reply. 

September  12. 
I  am  thinking  again  of  Elena.  It  may  be  that 
she  loves  neither  me  nor  her  husband.  I  think 
she  only  loves  love.  Her  radiant  life  is  only  in 
her  love ;  she  was  born  for  love  and  she  will  die 
for  it.  And  when  my  thoughts  take  that  turn, 
I  feel  a  grim  satisfaction.  What  is  the  good  of 
Elena's  coming  to  me,  of  my  kissing  her  beautiful 
body,  and  looking  into  her  eyes  resplendent  with 
love  ?  .  .  .  She  leaves  me  to  return  smilingly  to 
her  husband,  to  share  lovingly  his  life.  ...  I 
am  painfully  obsessed  by  the  thought  of  him — 
of  that  slim,  fair-haired  youth.  Sometimes,  in 
the  silence,  I  catch  myself  nursing  deep  and 
secret  desires.  And  it  seems  to  me  then  that 
it  is  not  he  I  am  thinking  of,  but  the  one  who 
is  no  more  and  whom  I  once  hated.  I  have  then 
the  feeling  that  the  governor  is  still  alive, 
I  walk  on  a  thorny  road.     He — ^her  husband — 


THE  PALE  HORSE  151 

stands  on  my  narrow  way  and  obstructs  it : 
she  loves  him.  ' 

I  watch  the  weary  dechne  of  autumn  in  the 
gardens.  The  asters  are  glowing  red,  the  dry 
leaves  are  falling,  the  grass  is  crisp  with  the 
morning  frost.  The  old  famihar  thought  assumes 
an  increased  distinctness  in  my  inind  during 
these  days  of  decay.     I  recall  the  old  words  : 

If  a  louse  in  your  shirt 
Mocks  you  :  '  you  are  a  flea/ 
Then  go  out  and  kill ! 

September  18. 

Heinrich  has  been  staying  here  all  this  time. 
His  family  lives  in  the  district  across  the  river. 
He  is  leaving  to-day  to  join  Erna. 

He  looks  stronger  and  fuller  :  his  rest  has 
done  him  good.  His  eyes  sparkle,  and  he 
does  not  speak  in  the  dejected  way  that  he 
got  into  of  late.  This  was  our  first  meeting 
for  some  days. 

We  went  to  a  tavern — the  same  where 
Vania  used  to  join  us.  He  asked  me  over  his 
meal: 

'  Have  you  read,  George,  what  they  say  in 
the  News  1' 


152  THE  PALE  HORSE 

'  What  about  ?  ' 

'  Why,  about  the  governor.' 

'  No,  I  haven't.' 

He  was  indignant  at  my  indifference,  and 
produced  a  thin  sheet  of  printed  matter. 

'  There  it  is.     Read  it,  George.' 

I  had  no  desire  to  Hsten  to  him,  or  to  read 
the  paper.  I  pushed  it  away  and  said  in  a  bored 
voice  : 

'  Take  it  away.     I  don't  care  to  read.' 

'  You  don't  care  ?  How  can  you  take  it  like 
that  ?     That 's  what  we  did  it  for.' 

'  For  a  paragraph  in  the  papers  ?  ' 

'  You  make  fun  of  it.  .  .  .  But  the  printed 
word  has  a  great  importance.' 

I  felt  extremely  bored,  and  I  said : 

'  Don't  let  us  discuss  that  question.  Look 
here,  Heinrich  :   you  love  Erna,  don't  you  ?  ' 

He  dropped  his  spoon  into  the  plate  and 
blushed  violently.  Then  he  asked  in  a  trembling 
voice  : 

'  How  do  you  know  ?  ' 

'  I  know.' 

He  was  silent  in  his  confusion. 

'  Well,  take  care  of  her,'  I  said.  '  I  wish  you 
happiness.' 


THE  PALE  HORSE  158 

He  rose,  and  for  a  long  time  walked  up  and 
down  the  filthy  private  room  we  were  in.  At 
last  he  said  in  a  low  voice  : 

'  George,  I  trust  you.     Tell  me  the  truth.' 

'  What  do  you  want  to  know  ?  ' 

'  Don't  you  love  Erna  ?  ' 

His  gloomy  face,  with  the  two  red  spots  on  it, 
amused  me.     I  laughed  outright. 

'  I — love  Erna  ?     What  an  idea  !  ' 

'  And  you  never — never  loved  her  ?  ' 

I  answered  clearly  and  distinctly  : 

'  No,  I  never  loved  her.' 

His  face  beamed  with  happiness.  He  shook 
my  hand  warmly. 

'  Well,  I  am  off,'  he  said.     '  Good-bye.' 

He  left  me.  I  remained  for  a  long  time  at  the 
untidy  table  with  the  greasy  plates  before  me. 
And  suddenly  it  all  became  so  utterly  ridiculous 
to  me. 

I  love,  he  loves,  she  loves.  .  .  .  What  a 
tedious  tale  !  z 

September  14. 

I  have  not  seen  Elena  to-day.  I  went  to  the 
Tivoli  in  the  evening.  As  usual,  the  orchestra 
rattled  provokingly,  the  gipsies  sang.  As  always, 
women  walked  about  between  the  tables,  rust- 


154  THE  PALE  HORSE 

ling  their  silken  dresses.  And  I  felt  bored — as 
usual. 

A  naval  officer  was  sitting  at  the  next  table : 
he  was  drunk.  Wine  sparkled  in  the  glasses, 
the  women's  jewels  glittered.  Sounds  of  laugh- 
ing and  incoherent  talk  came  to  me  from  all 
sides.     The  hands  of  the  clock  moved  slowly. 

Suddenly  I  heard  : 

*  You  look  lonely.' 

The  officer,  tottering  on  his  feet,  came  to  my 
table,  and  stretched  his  wine-glass  to  touch  mine. 
He  had  purple  cheeks  and  short-clipped  mous- 
taches— the  governor  had  the  same  sort  of 
moustaches. 

'  Aren't  you  ashamed  of  being  bored  ?  '  he 
said.  '  Let  me  introduce  myself :  my  name  is 
Berg.  Come  to  our  table.  .  .  .  The  ladies  would 
like  to  have  the  pleasure  of  your  company.  .  .  .' 

I  rose  and  gave  my  name : 

'  Engineer  Malinovsky.' 

I  did  not  care  where  I  sat,  so  I  sat  down  lazily 
at  their  table.  The  party  laughed  gaily.  All 
touched  glasses  with  me.  The  violins  were 
wailing;  through  the  window  I  could  see  the 
grey  dawn  breaking. 

And  then  I  heard  some  one  ask  : 


THE  PALE  HORSE  155 

'  Where  is  Ivanov  ?  ' 

'  What  Ivanov  ?  ' 

'  Why,  Colonel  Ivanov.  What  has  become 
of  him  ?  ' 

I  instantly  thought  of  Ivanov,  the  head  of  the 
secret  police  department.  Was  it  he  they  were 
expecting  at  their  table  ?  I  bent  down  my  head 
to  my  neighbour  : 

'  Do  you  mean  the  gendarmerie  Colonel 
Ivanov  ?  '  I  asked  him. 

'  Yes,  of  course — the  very  same — a  dear  friend 
of  mine.  .  .  .' 

A  great  temptation  stirred  within  me.  Oh 
no,  I  was  not  going  to  get  up  and  leave  them  at 
once.  I  knew  :  that  man  Ivanov  must  have 
my  photograph  with  him.     I  waited. 

Ivanov  came  in.  He  looked  like  a  man  of  the 
merchant  class.  He  was  stout  and  had  a  red 
beard.  He  sat  down  heavily  and  helped  himself 
to  a  glass  of  vodka.  The  party  introduced  us 
to  each  other  : 

'  Malinovsky,' 

'  Ivanov.' 

He  had  come  to  drink,  and  I  felt  bored  again. 
Yet  the  temptation  was  great  to  go  near  him, 
and  to  whisper  into  his  ear  : 


156  THE  PALE  HORSE 

'  I  am  George  O'Brien,  coloneL' 

But  I  did  not  do  that.  I  rose  from  the  table 
without  saying  anything.  The  rain  was  weep- 
ing outside,  the  stone  city  was  asleep.  I  was 
alone.     I  felt  cold  and  darkness  within  me. 

September  15. 

I  ask  myself :  Why  do  I  remain  here  ?  What 
can  I  attain  ?  Elena  is  only  my  mistress.  She 
never  will  be  my  wife.  I  know  that,  and  yet 
I  cannot  go.  I  also  know  that  every  day  in- 
creases my  danger ;  that  I  am  risking  my  life. 
But  such  is  my  desire. 

At  Versailles,  in  the  park,  the  lakes  are  visible 
from  the  terrace.  Their  borders  are  stretching 
in  clear  outlines  along  the  graceful  groves  and 
the  dainty  flower-beds.  The  fountains  are  en- 
veloped in  vapour,  the  mirror-like  waters  are 
motionless.  A  drowsy  restfulness  hovers  over 
them. 

I  shut  my  eyes  and  imagine  myself  back  at 
Versailles.  I  want  to  forget  Elena,  to  be  at  rest 
to-day.  The  stream  of  life  flows  on,  the  day 
comes  and  goes — ^but  I  am  with  my  love,  like  a 
slave  in  chains. 

Somewhere,  very  far,  there    is    ice    on   the 


THE  PALE  HORSE  157 

mountain  tops.  The  mountains  gleam  blue, 
covered  with  the  virginal  snow.  Men  live 
peacefully  at  the  foot  of  the  mountains ;  they 
live  in  peace  and  they  die  in  peace.  The  sun 
shines  over  them,  love  warms  their  hearts.  But 
in  order  to  live  as  they  do  neither  anger  nor 
the  sword  is  wanted.  .  .  .  And  I  recall  Vania. 
Perhaps  he  was  right ;  but  the  white  robes  are 
not  for  me  :  Christ  is  not  with  me. 

September  16. 

*  Why  are  you  always  sad  ?  '  asked  Elena. 
'  Do  I  not  love  you  ?  Look  here,  I  will  make 
you  a  present  of  a  pearl.' 

She  took  off  a  ring  from  her  finger ;  a  large 
pearl  glittered  like  a  tear  in  the  gold  ring. 

'  Take  care  of  it.  .  .  .  It  is  my  love.' 

And  she  embraced  me  confidingly. 

'  You  are  sad  because  I  am  not  your  wife  ? 
But  I  know  :  marriage  is  love  made  a  habit,  a 
dull  love  without  a  bright  spark.  And  I  want 
to  love  you.  ...  I  long  for  beauty  and  love.  .  .  .' 

She  added  pensively  : 

'  Why  do  people  put  down  letters,  make  words 
out  of  letters  and  laws  out  of  words  ?  There  are 
libraries  full  of  those  laws.     Don't  live,  don't 


158  THE  PALE  HORSE 

love,  don't  think.  There  is  a  don't  for  every 
single  day.  .  .  .  Isn't  it  ridiculous  and  silly  ? 
Why  must  I  love  only  one  man  ?     Say,  why  ?  ' 

And  again  I  was  without  an  answer. 

'  Well,  you  have  nothing  to  reply,  George. 
You  don't  know  either.  Can  you  say  you  loved 
no  one  before  me  ?  ' 

I  felt  disturbed.  I  certainly  loved  more  than 
one  woman,  and  I  never  believed  in  the  use  of 
laws.  She  was  repeating  my  own  words.  But 
now  I  felt  they  were  a  lie.  And  I  wanted  to  tell 
her  that,  but  I  did  not  dare. 

Her  heavy,  black  plaits  of  hair  came  down  on 
her  shoulders,  and  her  face  looked  more  pale 
and  thin  in  the  dark  frame  of  her  loosened  hair. 
Her  eyes  were  waiting  for  my  answer. 

I  silently  kissed  her.  I  kissed  her  innocent 
hands,  her  strong  young  body.  To  kiss  her  was 
a  torture  to  me  :  my  mind  was  again  hypno- 
tised by  the  recurring  thought  of  him  who  was 
kissing  her  as  I  did,  and  whom  she  loved.  And 
I  said  : 

'  No,  Elena,  it  cannot  go  on  :  it  must  be  he 
or  I.  .  .  .' 

She  laughed. 

'  There  you  are.    I  must  be  the  slave,  you  her 


THE  PALE  HORSE  159 

master.  And  what  if  I  don't  want  to  choose  ? 
Why  should  I  ?     Tell  me.' 

The  rain  came  down  noisily  outside  the  window. 
I  saw  her  outline  in  the  dim  light ;  her  large  eyes 
gleamed  dark  in  the  night.     I  said,  growing  pale  : 

'  Such  is  my  wish,  Elena.' 

She  was  silent.     Her  face  grew  sad. 

'  Choose  ! '  I  said. 

'  Dearest,  I  can't.  .  .  .' 

'  I  ask  you  to  choose.' 

She  rose  quickly  from  her  chair,  and  said 
firmly  and  quietly  :  '  I  love  you,  George.  You 
know  that.     But  I  will  never  be  your  wife.' 

She  was  gone.  I  remained  alone — with  only 
her  pearl  in  my  possession. 

September  17. 
Elena  loves  her  beautiful  body,  her  young  life. 
There  might  be  freedom  in  such  a  love — people 
say  there  is.  But  I  don't  care  :  let  Elena  be 
a  slave  and  I  the  master ;  let  me  be  a  slave  and 
she  free.  ...  All  I  know  with  certainty  is  that 
I  will  not  share  her  love  with  any  one.  I  cannot 
kiss  her  if  another  kisses  her.  Vania  sought  for 
Christ,  Elena  seeks  for  freedom.  As  for  me, 
I  am  not  seeking  anything  :   let  it  be  Christ,  or 


160  THE  PALE  HORSE 

the  Antichrist,  or  Dionysus — I  don't  care.  I 
desire  to  possess  her.  And  my  desire  is  my 
right. 

The  thought  of  the  scarlet  flower  is  intoxi- 
cating me  again.  The  mysterious  spell  is  at 
work  once  more.  I  am  like  a  stone  in  the  desert, 
but  I  have  a  sharp  sickle  in  my  hand. 

September  18. 

Something  happened  yesterday  which  I  anti- 
cipated, and  yet  secretly  hoped  would  not  happen. 
It  was  a  day  of  sorrow  and  shame.  I  was  walk- 
ing in  the  main  street.  A  milky  fog  was  creep- 
ing up  and  melting  in  waves  of  darkness. 

I  walked  on  without  any  aim,  without  any 
thoughts,  like  a  ship  drifting  after  it  had  lost  its 
rudder.  Suddenly  a  spot  thickened  in  the  fog, 
a  dim  shadow  moved  unsteadily  forward.  An 
officer  walked  impetuously  toward  me.  He 
looked  at  me  and  stopped.  It  was  Elena's 
husband.  I  looked  fixedly  into  his  eyes  and  I 
could  see  anger  in  the  dark  pupils.  I  took  his 
arm  softly  and  said  : 

'  I  have  looked  for  you  for  a  long  time.' 

We  walked  up  the  street  in  silence.  We 
walked  a  long  time  in  the  dark  mist,  but  we  both 


THE  PALE  HORSE  161 

knew  our  way.     And  we  felt  as  near  to  one 
another  as  brothers.     We  entered  the  park. 

Autumn  had  set  in.  The  branches  were  bare 
— hke  prison  bars.  The  fog  was  dispersing,  the 
grass  was  drenched  with  the  mist.  There  was  a 
smell  of  decay  and  of  moss. 

Deep  in  the  park,  in  the  thicket,  I  chose  a 
path.  I  sat  down  on  a  stump  of  a  felled  tree 
and  said  coldly : 

'  You  know  who  I  am  ?  ' 

He  nodded  silently. 

'  You  know  why  I  am  here  ?  ' 

He  nodded  again. 

'  But  I  also  must  tell  you  that  I  don't  intend 
to  leave.' 

He  said  with  a  contemptuous  smile  : 

'  Are  you  sure  of  that  ?  ' 

Was  I  sure  ?  I  didn't  know.  Could  any  one 
be  sure  whom  it  was  that  Elena  loved  ?  But  I 
only  said  : 

'  And  you  ?  ' 

There  was  a  silence.     Then  I  said  : 

'  Look  here.  You  are  to  go.  Is  that  clear  ? 
You.' 

He  flushed  in  an  outburst  of  anger.  But  he 
said  coolly  : 

h 


162  THE  PALE  HORSE 

'  You  are  mad.' 

Then  I  silently  produced  my  revolver.  I 
measured  eight  paces  on  the  grass,  and  marked 
the  barriers  with  wet  rods.  He  watched  me 
attentively.  When  I  finished  he  said  with  a 
smile  : 

*  You  intend  to  fight,  I  see  ?  ' 
'  I  insist  on  your  departure.' 

Fair-haired  and  slim,  he  looked  straight  into 
my  eyes  and  repeated  sarcastically  : 

*  You  are  mad.' 

I  asked,  after  a  silence : 

'  Will  you  fight  ?  ' 

He  unfastened  his  revolver  case,  and  reluct- 
antly took  out  his  revolver.  After  some  hesita- 
tion he  said  : 

'  Very  well.  ...  I  am  at  your  service.' 

A  moment  later  he  stood  at  his  appointed 
place.  I  knew  I  could  hit  an  ace  from  a  dis- 
tance of  ten  paces.  I  could  not  possibly  miss 
my  mark  this  time. 

I  raised  my  revolver  and  fixed  the  black 
mark  :  a  button  of  his  overcoat.  I  waited. 
After  a  pause  I  said  in  a  loud  voice  :  'One.  .  .  .' 

He  was  silent. 

'  Two  and  three.' 


THE  PALE  HORSE  168 

He  stood  motionless,  pushing  his  breast 
forward,  and  holding  his  revolver  downward. 
He  would  not  raise  it — he  obviously  mocked  at 
me.  ...  A  hot  and  hard  lump  suddenly 
clutched  my  throat.     I  shouted  furiously  :  -- 

'  Fire,  I  say  ! ' 

Not  a  sound  came  from  him.  Then,  with  a 
sudden  joy,  I  pressed  slowly  the  trigger.  There 
was  a  flash  of  yellow,  a  white  smoke  crept 
along.  .  .  . 

I  walked  across  the  wet  grass,  and  stooped 
over  the  body.  He  was  lying  on  the  path  face 
downwards  in  the  cold,  soft  mud.  His  arm  was 
awkwardly  bent,  the  legs  were  stretched  widely 
apart,  A  thin  rain  was  falling.  It  was  misty. 
I  turned  into  the  thick  of  the  wood.  The  night 
was  coming  on.  It  was  pitch  dark  under  the 
trees.  I  walked  on  aimlessly,  like  a  ship  without 
a  rudder. 

September  20. 

Men  were  falling  in  the  Tsushima  battle.  The 
night  was  dark,  the  sea  wrapped  in  a  fog,  the 
waves  rose  high.  The  battleship  was  hiding  like 
a  monstrously  big  wounded  animal.  The  black 
funnels  were  hardly  visible,  the  guns  were  silent. 


164  THE  PALE  HORSE 

They  fought  in  the  daytime,  at  night  they  fled 
from  possible  attacks.  Hundreds  of  eyes  were 
searching  the  darkness.  And  suddenly  there 
came  a  wail — like  the  scream  of  a  frightened  sea- 
gull :  '  Torpedo-boat  along  the  side.  .  .  .'  The 
searchlights  flared  up,  blinding  the  night  with 
the  white  glare.  And  then  .  .  .  Whoever  was 
on  deck  jumped  into  the  sea.  Those  who  were 
within,  behind  the  steel  armour,  were  dashing 
against  the  hatchway.  The  boat  gradually 
began  to  sink,  going  down  with  its  nose  into 
the  water.  The  machinists  in  the  engine-room 
dropped  down  like  sacks,  the  iron  chains  striking 
them,  the  wheels  mangling  them,  the  smoke 
stifling  them,  the  vapour  scorching  them.  So 
they  perished,  all  of  them.  And  the  waves 
went  on  beating  against  the  sides  with  a  rock- 
ing movement.  .  .  ;  A  senseless,  nameless  death 
And  then  there  is  another  kind  of  death. 
Imagine  a  northern  sea,  a  northern  gale.  The 
wind  strains  the  sails,  lashes  the  sea  into  white 
foam.  A  fishing  boat  is  tossing  on  the  grey 
waves.  The  grey  day  dissolves  in  a  pale  sunset. 
The  flash  of  a  lighthouse  appears  from  a  dis- 
tance— first  red,  then  white,  then  again  red. 
The  men  ^re  motionless  on  the  foredeck,  they 


THE  PALE  HORSE  165 

clutch  tightly  on  the  ropes.  The  waves  roar, 
the  rain  splashes.  ... 

Then  suddenly  a  bell  is  heard  to  toll  slowly 
through  the  wailing  of  the  wind.  A  bell  is  beat- 
ing in  the  water  against  the  low  sides  of  the  boat, 
causing  it  to  ring.  It  is  the  can-buoy.  They 
have  struck  a  sandbank.  It  means  death.  .  .  . 
Then  again  there  is  the  wind,  the  sky,  and  the 
waves.  But  the  men  are  no  longer  to  be  seen.  . . . 

Here  is  still  another  death.  I  have  killed  a 
man.  .  .  .  Earlier  I  had  an  excuse :  I  was  killing 
for  the  sake  of  an  ideal,  for  a  cause.  Those  who 
sank  the  Japanese  reasoned  as  I  did  :  Russia 
needed  their  death.  But  now  I  have  killed /or 
my  own  sake.  I  wanted  to  kill,  and  I  killed. 
Who  IS  the  judge  ?  Who  will  judge  me  guilty  ? 
Who  will  justify  me  ?  I  have  scorn  for  my 
judges  and  their  hard  sentences.  Who  will 
come  to  me  and  say  with  genuine  faith  :  Thou 
shalt  not  kill.  Who  will  dare  to  throw  a  stone 
at  me  ?  There  is  no  definite  distinction,  no 
difference.  Why  is  it  right  to  kill  for  the  sake 
of  an  ideal,  for  one's  country,  and  not  for  one's 
own  sake  ?     Who  will  answer  me  ? 

I  look  out  of  my  window.  I  can  see  the  gleam- 
ing stars,  the  brilUant  Bear,  the  silvery  stream 


\ 


166  THE  PALE  HORSE 

of  the  Milky  Way,  the  timid  brightness  of  the 
Pleiades.  What  is  behind  them  ?  .  .  .  Vania 
had  faith.  He  knew.  But  I  am  standing 
alone,  the  night  is  incomprehensibly  silent. 
The  earth  breathes  with  mystery,  the  stars  shine 
enigmatically.  I  have  walked  a  hard  road. 
Where  is  the  end  ?  Where  is  my  well-deserved 
rest  ?  Blood  begets  blood,  and  vengeance  lives 
by  vengeance.  ...  It  is  not  him  alone  that  I 
have  killed.  .  .  .  Where  shall  I  go  ?  where  shall 
I  fly  ? 

September  22. 

It  has  rained  since  morning — a  drizzly  autumn 
rain.  I  look  into  its  spider-like  net,  and  weary 
thoughts  disturb  me  lazily,  like  falling  drops. 

Vania  had  lived  and  died.  Fedor  had  lived 
and  was  killed.  The  governor,  too,  had  lived 
and  is  gone.  .  .  .  Men  live  and  die,  and  new 
men  are  born.  They  live  and  die.  .  .  .  The  sky 
is  gloomy,  the  rain  pours  in  streams. 

I  do  not  repent.     Yes,  I  did  kill.  ...  I  feel 

^;'    no  yearning  for  Elena.  .  .  .  My  murderous  shot 

\\    seems  to  have  burnt  my  love  out  of  me.     I  am 

indifferent  to  her  grief.     I  don't  know  where  she 

is  and  what  she  is  doing.     Does  she  mourn  her 

loss,  her  own  life,  or  has  she  already  forgotten  ? 


'■'y 


THE  PALE  HORSE  167 

He  and  I  ?      Again  he  !      We  are  chained  to 
one  another  even  now. 

The  rain  is  coming  down  rapidly,  and  is 
making  a  noise  on  the  iron  roofs.  Vania  said : 
How  can  one  Hve  without  love  ?  It  was  Vania 
who  said  that,  not  I.  ...  Oh  no — I  have  made 
a  business  of  blood.  ...  I  will  take  up  my 
trade  again.  I  will  watch  and  spy  day  after 
day,  one  weary  hour  after  another.  I  will  live 
by  death,  and  a  day  will  come  with  its  intoxi- 
cating joy  :  I  will  have  accomplished  my  purpose 
— scored  a  victory.  And  such  will  be  my  life 
until  I  go  to  the  gallows,  until  I  go  into  my  grave. 

But  men  will  praise  me,  will  rejoice  loudly  in 
my  victory.  What  is  their  anger,  their  pitiful 
joy^  to  me  ?  .  .  . 

A  milk-white  fog  has  enveloped  the  town 
again.  The  chimneys  rise  sullenly,  a  long- 
drawn  whistle  comes  from  the  factory.  The 
cold  darkness  is  creeping  up.  The  rain  is  still 
falling. 

September  23. 

Christ  said  :  '  Do  not  kill,'  and  His  disciple 
Peter  unsheathed  the  sword  in  order  to  kill. 
Christ  said:  'Love  one  another,'  and  Judas 
betrayed  Him.     Christ  said  :  '  I  came  not  to 


168  THE  PALE  HORSE 

judge  the  world,  but  to  save  the  world,'  and 
sentence  was  passed  upon  Him.  Two  thousand 
years  ago,  perspiring  with  blood,  He  prayed,  and 
His  disciples  were  asleep.  Two  thousand  years 
ago  the  people  dressed  Him  in  a  purple  robe  : 
'  Take  Him  and  crucify  Him.'  And  Pilate 
said  :  '  Shall  I  crucify  your  king  ?  '  But  the 
chief  priests  answered  :  '  We  have  no  king  but 
Csesar.' 

And  now  Peter  continues  to  unsheathe  his 
sword  ;  Annas  to  judge  together  with  Caiaphas  ; 
Judas,  son  of  Simon,  to  betray.  And  we  go  on 
crucifying  Jesus  as  of  old. 

But  if  that  is  so,  then  He  is  not  the  vine,  we 
are  not  the  branches.  Then  His  word  is  but  an 
earthen  vessel.  Then  Vania  was  not  right.  .  .  . 
Poor,  loving  Vania  !  ...  He  sought  a  justifica- 
tion of  life.     Why  need  it  be  justified  ? 

The  Huns  have  passed  over  the  fields,  and 
trampled  down  the  young  sprouts.  The  pale 
horse  stepped  on  the  grass  and  the  grass  withered. 
Men  have  heard  the  word — and  the  word  has 
been  defiled. 

Vania  wrote  with  faith  :  '  The  world  shall  be 
saved  not  by  the  sword  but  by  love — and  love 
will  rule.'     Yet  Vania  did  kill.     He  '  has  com- 


THE  PALE  HORSE  169 

mitted  the  greatest  sin  against  men  and  God.' 
If  I  had  had  his  faith  I  should  not  have  been  able 
to  kill.  And,  as  I  have  killed,  I  am  unable  to 
think  as  he  thought. 

As  for  Heinrich,  he  does  not  trouble  about 
riddles.  The  world  to  him  is  simple  as  an 
alphabet.  There  are  slaves  on  one  side,  masters 
on  the  other.  The  slaves  revolt  against  the 
masters.  It  is  right  that  a  slave  should  kill. 
It  is  wrong  that  a  slave  should  be  killed.  A  day- 
will  come  when  the  slaves  shall  conquer.  Then 
there  will  be  a  paradise  on  earth.  All  men  will 
be  equal ;  all  will  be  well  fed,  and  all  will  be  free. 
Excellent,  indeed.  I  don't  believe  in  a  paradise 
on  earth,  and  don't  believe  in  a  paradise  m 
heaven.  I  don't  want  to  be  a  slave,  not  even  a 
free  slave.  All  my  life  has  been  a  clash.  I 
can't  exist  without  it.  But  what  is  the  purpose 
of  my  clashing  ?  That  I  don't  know.  Such  is 
my  desire.     I  drink  my  wine  undiluted. 

September  24. 

I  live  again  in  lodgings  :  I  am  Engineer  Malin- 
ovsky.  I  live  as  I  choose.  Nothing  matters  to 
me  now :  let  them  find  me,  let  them  arrest  n:c. 

It  is  a  cold  evening.     An  illusive  moon  shines 


170  THE  PALE  HORSE 

above  the  bare  factory  chimney.  The  moon- 
light streams  down  on  the  roofs,  the  shadow 
stretches  sleepily.  The  town  is  asleep.  But  I 
cannot  sleep. 

I  am  thinking  of  Elena.  It  seems  strange  to 
me  now  that  I  could  have  loved  her,  that  I  could 
have  killed  for  the  sake  of  love.  I  w^ant  to  re- 
suscitate her  kisses  in  my  memory.  But  memory 
is  false  :  it  gives  no  joy,  no  exultation.  The 
words  sound  weary,  the  caressing  hands  are 
languid.  Love  has  gone  out  like  an  evening 
flame.  Once  more  twilight,  once  more  dulness. 
'^I  ask  myself:  Why  did  I  kill?  Have  1 
gained  anything  through  death  ?  Oh  yes ;  I 
believed  that  it  was  permissible  to  kill.  But  now 
I  am  sad  :  1  killed  not  only  him,  but  love  as  well. 
And  the  autumn  seems  mournful :  the  dead 
leaves  are  lainng — ^the  dead  leaves  of  my  lost 
days. 

September  25. 
I  took  a  paper  to-day  by  chance,  and  came 
across  a  paragraph  in  small  print :  '  The  police 
visited  last  night  the  Grand  Hotel,  with  an 
order  to  arrest  Madam  Petrova,  a  lady  residing 
there.  In  answer  to  the  demand  for  her  to 
open  the  door,  a  shot  was  heard.     When  the 


THE  PALE  HORSE  171 

police  broke  open  the  door  they  found  the  still 
warm  body  of  the  suicide.  An  inquest  is  being 
held; 

It  was  Erna  who  stayed  at  the  hotel  under 
the  assumed  name  of  Petrova. 

September  26. 
I  can  see  how  it  all  happened.  In  the  night, 
towards  daybreak,  there  was  a  knock  on  the 
door — not  a  loud  knock.  It  was  dark  and  quiet 
in  the  room.  She  slept  lightly,  and  was  at  once 
awake.  Then  came  another  knock — this  time 
louder  and  more  persistent.  She  quickly  ad- 
justed her  hair  and  rose  from  her  bed.  Without 
turning  on  the  light  she  went  barefoot  to  the 
large  table  on  the  right,  near  the  piano.  She  felt 
her  way  with  her  hands  and  noiselessly  took  her 
revolver  out  of  a  drawer.  I  know  the  revolver  : 
it  was  I  who  made  her  a  present  of  it.  Then 
she  began  to  dress — still  in  the  dark,  still  feeling 
her  way.  A  third  knock  came — ^the  last.  Half 
dressed  she  rushed  into  a  corner,  near  the  window. 
She  drew  aside  the  dark  curtain  and  saw  the 
narrow,  paved  courtyard,  wet  with  rain.  There 
were  no  stars— only  the  dim  light  of  the  lamp 
below.     The  police  were  already  breaking  in. 


172  THE  PALE  HORSE 

She  turned  to  the  door,  and,  with  a  quick,  deter- 
mined movement,  pressed  the  revolver  to  her 
breast,  to  the  naked  flesh,  to  the  very  heart. 
They  found  her  lying  on  her  back  in  the  corner. 
The  revolver  outlined  itself  black  on  the  carpet. 
And  then  again  all  was  dark  and  quiet. 

And  now,  at  this  very  moment,  I  can  see  her 
standing  at  my  door  as  if  she  were  aUve.  Her 
hair  is  in  disorder,  her  blue  eyes  are  dim.  Her 
frail  body  is  trembling  as  she  whispers  : 

'  You  will  come  to  me,  George.  .  .  .  Won't 
you?  .  .  . 

I  walked  in  the  streets  to-day.  The  crosses 
on  the  churches  were  gleaming.  The  bells  were 
ringing  gloomily  for  vespers.  The  streets  were 
full  of  noise  and  bustle.  All  seemed  so  famihar 
and  yet  so  distant.  That  was  the  place  where 
Vania  had  killed  the  governor.  There,  in  the 
lane  below,  Fedor  died.  .  .  .  This  was  where  I 
met  Elena.  ...  In  the  park  Ema  cried.  .  .  . 
All  that  is  gone.  There  had  been  a  flame,  now 
the  last  smoke  is  vanishing. 

September  27. 

I  am  tired  of  life.  To-day  is  just  hke  yester- 
day, and  yesterday  was  like  to-day.     The  same 


THE  PALE  HORSE  178 

milky  fog,  the  same  grey  everyday  life.  The 
same  iov6,  the  same  deatb.  lAfe  is  like  a  narrow 
street  with  old  low  houses,  j3at  roofs  and  factory 
chimneys.     A  black  wood  of  stone  chimneys. 

Or  is  it  not  all  a  puppet  show  ?  The  curtain 
is  up,  we  arc  en  the  stage.  The  pale  Pierrot 
loves  Pierrette.  He  swears  eternal  love  to  her. 
Pierrette  has  a  lover.  A  toy  pistol  cracks, 
blood  flows — it  is  only  cranberry  juice.  A  street 
organ  squeaks.     Curtain. 

Then  the  second  number:  the  pursuit  of  a 
man.  He  has  a  hat  with  a  cock-feather  stuck 
in  it.  He  is  an  admiral  in  the  Swiss  fleet.  We 
have  red  mantles  and  masks.  Rinaldo  di 
Rinaldini  is  with  us.  The  carabineers  pursue 
us  but  cannot  catch  us.  The  pistol  cracks 
again  ;   the  street  organ  squeaks.     Curtain. 

Number  three  :  Athos,  Porthos,  Aramis,  the 
three  musketeers,  are  on  the  stage.  Their 
jackets  are  splashed  with  wine.  They  have 
pasteboard  swords  in  their  hands.  They  drink, 
kiss  and  sing.  Now  and  then  they  kill.  Whr 
can  surpass  Athos  in  courage  ?  Or  Porthos  -'i 
strength  ?  Or  Aramis  in  cunning  ?  The  finale. 
The  street  organ  drones  an  elaborate  march 
tune. 


174  THE  PALE  HORSE 

Bravo !  The  gallery  and  the  stalls  are  pleased. 
The  actors  have  done  their  jobs.  They  are 
being  dragged  by  their  three-cornered  hats,  by 
their  cock-feathers,  and  thrown  into  a  box.  The 
strings  get  entangled.  Which  is  the  admiral 
Rinaldo,  which  the  enamoured  Pierrot?  Who 
can  make  head  or  tail  of  it  ?  Good-night  until 
to-morrow. 

To-day  I  am  on  the  stage  with  Vania,  Fedor, 
and  the  governor.  Blood  is  flowing.  To-morrow 
I  will  be  dragged  on  again.  Carabineers  are 
on  the  scene.  Blood  is  flowing.  In  a  week  it 
will  be  again  the  admiral,  Pierrette,  Pierrot. 
Blood  is  flowing — ^that  is,  cranberry  juice. 

Will  men  find  sense  in  that  ?  And  am  I 
searching  for  the  links  of  the  chain  ?  And  does 
Vania  believe  in  God  ?  And  does  Heinrich 
believe  in  freedom  ?  .  .  .  Oh  no,  the  world  is 
certainly  simpler  than  that.  The  tedious  merry- 
go-round  goes  on  turning  :  men  fly  at  the  light 
like  moths.  They  perish  in  the  flame.  And 
really,  is  it  not  all  the  same  ? 

I  am  weary.  Days  come  and  go.  The  street 
organ  will  continue  to  squeak  behind  the  scene. 
Pierrot  will  make  his  escape.  Come  to  the  show 
— it  is  open  to  the  public. 


THE  PALE  HORSE  175 

I  recall  one  night  on  the  seashore,  in  the  late 
autumn.  The  sea  was  sighing  languidly ;  it 
crept  slowly  upon  the  beach  and  immersed  it. 
There  was  a  fog.  All  boundaries  became  ob- 
literated in  the  white  mist.  The  waves  merged 
with  the  sky,  the  beach  with  the  water.  The 
wet  watery  mist  enveloped  me.  I  breathed  in 
the  salt  moisture.  I  heard  the  noise  of  the 
water.  There  was  not  a  single  star,  not  a  glimpse 
of  light.  A  transparent  darkness  surrounded 
me. 

It  is  just  like  that  now.  There  is  no  visible 
outline,  no  end  and  no  beginning.  Is  it  vaude- 
ville or  is  it  drama  ?  Cranberry  juice  or  blood  ? 
Puppet  show  or  life  ?  I  don't  know.  Who 
knows  ? 

October  1. 

I  have  left  town.  Last  night  I  went  to  the 
station,  and  mechanically  seated  myself  in  the 
train.  The  buffers  were  clanging  noisily,  the 
springs  were  bending.  The  engine  whistled. 
Lights  gleamed  hurriedly  by.  The  wheels 
rattled  on  speedily.  There  is  autumn  mud  here. 
The  morning  is  gloomy.  The  water  in  the  river 
is  like  lead.  And  across  the  river  there  is  a 
shadow  in  the  fog.     It  is  that  of  a  sharp*  spire. 


176  THE  PALE  HORSE 

At  three  o'clock  the  dayhght  is  gone,  the  street 
lamps  are  lit.  A  howling  wind  comes  from  the 
sea ;  the  river  rises  turbulently  against  the 
granite  banks  ;   an  inundation  is  threatening. 

I  am  weary.  There  are  the  crosses^— here  are 
the  soldiers.  Monasteries  and  barracks.  .  .  . 
I  am  waiting  for  night.  My  hour  comes  at  night 
— ^the  hour  of  oblivion  and  peace. 

October  3. 

I  came  across  Andrei  Petrovich  yesterday. 
He  was  pleased  to  see  me  :  his  eyes  smiled.  He 
did  not  stop  me,  but  cautiously  followed  me. 

I  did  not  care  to  see  him.  I  did  not  want  to 
talk  to  him  about  business  matters.  I  knew  all 
he  was  going  to  say — all  his  common-sense 
sermons.  I  increased  my  pace  and  turned  into 
a  lane.     He  overtook  me. 

'  You  are  back,  George  ?  '  he  said.  '  Thank 
God.' 

And  he  vigorously  shook  my  hand. 

'  Let  us  go  to  a  tavern.' 

As  always,  the  damaged  gramophone  rattled 
on  hoarsely.  The  waiters  were  running  back 
and  forth.  The  tobacco  smoke,  the  strong 
smell  of  alcohol,  victuals,  and  beer  irritated  me, 


THE  PALE  HORSE  1T7 

'  We  wanted  you  badly.     Listen,  George.' 

'  Well  ?  ' 

He  whispered  mysteriously  : 

'  The  work  must  be  organised  again.  We 
have  decided  it.' 

His  grey  beard  trembled ;  his  eyes  twinkled, 
as  is  often  the  case  with  old  men.  He  waited 
for  my  answer. 

There  was  a  pause.     Then  he  said  : 

'  We  have  decided  to  entrust  it  to  you.  It 
will  be  hard  work.  But  you  are  the  man  for 
it,  George.' 

I  listened  to  him,  but  did  not  take  in  what  he 
said.  It  was  as  if  a  stranger  were  speaking 
words  which  had  nothing  to  do  with  me.  He 
was  calling  me  somewhere.  But  I  do  not  wish 
to  kill.     Why  should  I? 

And  I  said:   'Why?'  '         j.    -, 

'  What  do  you  mean,  George  ?  '     ^    ^ 

'\Vrhykill?'    .         '     " 

He  did  not  understand  what  I  meant.  He 
poured  out  a  glass  of  cold  water. 

'  Have  some  water.     You  are  tired.' 

'  I  am  not.' 

'  George.  .  .  .  What  is  the  matter  with  you  ?  ' 

He  looked  anxiously  at  me  and  stroked  my 

M 


178  THE  PALE  HORSE 

hand  affectionately,  like  a  father.  But  I  knew 
for  certain  :  I  was  not  with  him,  nor  with  Vania, 
nor  with  Erna.     I  w  as  with  no  one. 

I  took  my  hat. 

'  Good-bye,  Andrei  Petrovich.' 

'  George  .  .  .' 

^Well?' 

•  George,  you  are  ill ;  you  must  rest.' 

There  was  another  pause.     I  said  slowly  : 

'  I  am  not  tired,  and  I  am  quite  well.  But  I 
won't  do  anything  more.     Good-bye.' 

There  was  thg  same  mud  in  the  street,  and 
the  same  spire  was  visible  across  the  river.  It 
was  grey,  damp,  and  miserable. 

October  4.  ' 
Now^  I  know  :  I  am  tired  of  life.  I  am  tired 
of  my  words,  my  thoughts,  my  desires — tired 
of  all  men  and  their  life.  There  is  a  bar  between 
them  and  me.  There  are  sacred  boundaries. 
My  boundary  is  the  red-stained  sworcl. 

I  used  to  look  at  the  sun  when  1  was  a  child. 
It  blinded  me,  it  scorched  me  with  its  radiant 
light.  I  knew  love  when  I  was  a  child — the 
tender  affections  of  my  mother.  I  loved  all  men 
innocently,  I  loved  the  joy  of  life.     Now  I  do 


THE  PALE  HORSE  179 

not  love  any  one.  I  do  not  want  to  love,  and  I 
cannot  love.  Life  has  become  an  accursed  and 
empty  thing  to  me  in  a  single  hour  :  all  is  a  lie 
and  all  is  vanity. 

October  5. 

There  was  the  desire,  and  I  accomplished  my 
task.  Now  the  desire  is  gone.  Why  should  I 
do  anything  ?  For  the  stage  ?  For  the  puppet 
show  ? 

I  recall :  '  He  that  loveth  not,  knoweth  not 
God :  for  God  is  love.'  I  do  not  love,  and  I  do 
not  know  God.  Vania  knew.  Did  he  really 
know  ? 

Furthermore  :  '  Blessed  are  they  that  have 
not  seen  and  yet  have  believed.'  To  believe — 
in  what  ?  To  pray — ^to  whom  ?  .  .  .  I  don't 
want  the  prayers  of  slaves.  .  .  .  Suppose  Christ 
has  set  the  world  alight  with  the  Word.  I  don't 
want  serene  light.  Suppose  love  can  save  the 
world.  I  don't  want  love  I  am  alone,  I  will 
leave  the  dull  puppet  show.  And  should  a 
temple  open  to  me  in  heaven — I  would  still  say  : 
All  is  vanity  and  all  is  a  lie. 

It  is  a  clear  and  pensive  day.  The  river 
glitters  in  the  sun.  I  love  its  majestic  smooth- 
ness, the  bed  of  deep  and  still  waters.     The 


180  THE  PALE  HORSE 

melancholy  sunset  dies  in  the  sea,  the  purple 
skies  are  aflame.  There  is  sadness  in  the  splash 
of  waters.  The  tops  of  the  firs  are  bending. 
There  is  a  smell  of  resin.  When  the  stars  come 
out  and  the  autumn  night  falls,  I  will  say  my 
lact  word  :   my  revolver  is  with  me. 


Printed  by  T.  and  A.  Constable,  Printers  to  His  Majesty 
at  the  Edinburgh  University  Press,  Scotland 


7  DAY   USE 
14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WfflCH  BORROWEr) 

LOAN  DEPT. 

'  This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 

Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


^8ep'65A-^ 


%     WSTACICs 


RtU  U  L'U 


AHP^l  '65-8 AM 


F-Q  2  2  ly^-J  "^"^j^i 


4U-^ 


JKN  b  TS6  2  0  ^B 


t*g'efrcf4)f^VWITER  Qu, 


'•    i^  1    id/ 1   ti  (J 


BEC'D  LB 

2lA-60m-3,'155 


*  LD21 

(F2336sl0)476B 


STANFORD 

iNitkLISRAg)^LO>^^ 

WAY  9 


TT*- 


t;  -  r  %'  ^p '  ■' 


l_c 


SS^^nP**^ 


^^>^ 


^t^^^ 


.af^ 


,9B6^^ 


arter 


FEB     371   -2  8    , 


ubiect  to  recall   after 

mC'Q  LP     MAIM  1  71 -in  AM  0  7 


^     University  of  CalirohiST 


Berkeley 


iliMiwffif^  LIBRARIES 


ETURN     CIRCULATION  DEPART  WtNT 
Q— »     202  Main  Library 


DAN  PERIOD  1 
HOME  USE 


ALL  BOOKS  MAY  BE  RECALIED  AFTER  7  DAYS 

R,newoU  ond  Recharges  may  be  made  4  days  prior  to  the  due  date. 

Books  moy  be  Renewed  by  colling     642-3405. 


ni  IF  AS  STAMPED  BELOW 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  BERKELEY 

Dcni/ci  CV    rA  04790 


